


When We Were Young

by onborrowedwings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onborrowedwings/pseuds/onborrowedwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he hadn't been looking for her in every girl he's seen for the past three years then he might not have recognised her. </p><p>He wonders who he thinks he's kidding, he'd fucking well know her anywhere. </p><p>(SansaxSandor, Modern AU set post ADWD)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from The Gaslight Anthem's beautiful song We Did It When We Were Young. I highly recommend a listen. Special thanks to Kimberlite8 for helping me with this!

**Prologue**

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who loved lemon cakes and fairytales, a girl who believed in true love and happy endings.

This is not that girl’s story. 

That girl is gone. Not dead (no not yet), but buried certainly, buried under the ensuing years of death and cruelty and lies. 

Alayne Stone buried Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark has unburied herself, rising from the ground like an unholy devil while gleefully throwing shovels of dirt down upon the remnants of the naive innocent that she used to be. The girl that she once was is gone with nobody to mourn her, she has slowly turned herself into a different creature entirely.

Not yet 21 years old and already she's lost everyone she ever loved. She’s been forced to marry a member of the family responsible for her father’s death, been accused of murder, stolen away by a man who covets her even as he calls her daughter, and finally even lost her own name.

This is certainly not what fairytales are made of.

Sansa Stark became Alayne Stone and buried herself, pretended that she was safe, pretended that she had a father (but she never forgot who her real father was, never, not even for a moment), pretended that she had no real purpose in life, that she'd never known any real tragedy. Smiled and simpered and nodded at all the right moments in conversations. Yet Alayne could never overcome Sansa entirely and remnants of her true self would creep up and out of the past, sneaking past the guard she had set for them.

Alayne Stone is a cheerful, blithe girl; a dutiful daughter who trusts her father implicitly. Alayne certainly doesn't go searching through desk drawers or eavesdrop on conversations or refill her father’s glass until he’s drunk too much in order to listen to him rambling so that she might make sense of the words. Alayne does not ask innocent sounding questions of her father's visitors or lead them into conversations about his past.

Alayne would never lock and bolt her door at night to keep the monsters out, nor stay awake until she's heard the hand that tries to turn it fail and the footsteps once again retreat.

It is Sansa Stark who does all these things.

It is not Alayne, but Sansa, who remembers her aunt's last words before she died. Aunt Lysa had been half crazy and trying to kill her at the time, yet Sansa cannot forget what she had revealed. Stories of poison and letters and names that she had once heard spoken by her parents, long ago, when she was a different girl. A murderous old harpy her aunt may have been, but she had known exactly what she was saying at the end, no matter how crazed it sounded.

Sansa has pieced together the rest of the mystery by herself over the past two years, has slowly unraveled Petyr Baelish's role in her family's downfall. Littlefinger considers himself to be entirely too clever and Sansa has perfected the art of pretending to be dumb and saying only what others wish to hear. 

It has been a long time since anyone has seen her true face, or known entirely what she thinks or feels. Years and pain have taught her to play her part well, an insipid girl incapable of any great thought. She ensures that there is too much temptation to prove his own superiority for Littlefinger to resist, and he drops clues like breadcrumbs while she secretly picks them up one by one and follows the trail.

Petyr Baelish may not be a lion or a wolf, but Sansa has come to realize that a mockingbird is the most dangerous creature of all; one that sings a sweet song to distract you while it prepares to peck out your eyes.

Now here she is, the last of the Starks, under the protection of the man who set her family's downfall in motion.

Once upon a time, Sansa Stark would've prayed for someone to save her; a brave hero who would come for her and take her somewhere safe, far away from here.

She does not pray anymore. After all, there is nobody left to save her now.

One by one she lost them all. If she is to be entirely accurate, then she should say two by two rather than one by one, after all she’s lost them all in pairs. First her father and Arya, then Bran and Rickon, then finally her mother and Robb. 

They are all dead now, except perhaps for Arya. Sansa has no idea what actually happened to her younger sister and is not entirely sure that she wants to find out. If Arya isn't dead by now then she probably wishes she was. 

Fourteen year old girls on the run with nobody to turn to seldom receive happy endings.

Jon is alive at least, but even he’s lost to her. He's far away fighting a war, ironically probably safer on the frontlines than he would have been at home. No, she won't doom Jon as well by drawing him into this.

There was another man once, who said that he would keep her safe, who offered to take her somewhere far away. Sansa didn't go with him, she hadn’t known whether she could trust him or not and so she placed her bets on the wrong savior instead.

Sansa has heard that that man is dead too; either that or he's killing and raping his way up the East Coast with a motorcycle gang. To be honest, she's not certain which one she considers to be the worse possibility.

There were times before she heard he was dead that she prayed that man would come back to save her (if she's honest, then even hearing he had died didn't entirely stop those prayers). She prayed that he would come for her because he was the last person to ever tell her the truth, as ugly as it was, and she's lived with lies ever since.

 _They're all liars, and every one better than you_ , he had said once and he had been right, so she made herself into a liar too and perfected the art of it. 

He had said many things to her, true things, and she remembers them all, clutches them to her in the dark of night like a jacket once given, long ago.

He had wanted to save her, to take her away from her captors. He had wanted _her_ , she's certain of it, though she wasn’t able to understand it at the time. Wanted her for herself and not her inheritance. Wanted her for herself and not because she looked like her poor dead mother. Saw right through her, saw her for the deluded little fool she was and wanted her anyway.

He had come to save her on a night filled with fire, dead drunk and half crazed with fear and despair, held a gun to her head and pinned her to the bed. Came to save her on a night filled with fire and it's the last true memory she has.

He had wanted to save her (wanted _her_ ), and she wishes she'd known it for the truth it was then, wishes that she'd seen past his threats and her own fear and gone with him anyway, consequences be damned. Wishes that he'd kissed her like she knows he wanted to, like she used to pretend that he had, just so she'd have a true memory to cling to when she fears losing herself. Wishes that maybe he had taken her right there on the bed and sometimes even convinces herself that she would've wanted it too (she didn't, she wouldn't have, she would not have remembered him so fondly now if he had, she is a liar in this too). Wishes he'd taken it from her simply so that Petyr Baelish couldn't one day (she won't let him, she won't give him that victory).

If she could turn back time, then she would’ve gone with that man and trusted in him to save her. She would've gone with that man, and even let him have her if he wanted to in return for his protection; and eventually - eventually she would've loved him simply for rescuing her and keeping her safe, because that was the girl that she once used to be. (Maybe she would’ve loved him anyway. Maybe.)

It is a different matter that the Sansa of that time, still so very innocent as to how the world really worked, would never have thought these things or agreed with these sentiments. 

Hindsight is useless and no matter what she thinks she should’ve chosen, it is all pointless now. Because that man is dead along with everyone else and there's no one left to save Sansa Stark so she's just going to have to save herself.

 _If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can._ Sansa will never have the type of strength that he had spoken of, but she’s learned other ways to protect herself instead. 

So she puts away money for a rainy day and plans and plots and lies and lies and lies through her teeth until even she's not sure what the truth is anymore.

Let Petyr Baelish revel in his own superiority because she, Sansa Stark, is preparing to spread her wings and fly away.

She doesn't need anyone to save her anymore.

(There isn't anyone, anymore, anyway.)


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

He finds her in a diner, in a small town in Arizona of all places, wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts that show off her legs and an old apron that covers her t-shirt. She's pouring coffee and laughing and looks like she doesn't have a care in the world.

If he hadn't been looking for her in every girl he's seen for the past three years then he might not have recognised her. Her hair is blonde now and pulled back in a messy bun, a pencil stuck through it. There are stains on the back of her shirt and the converse sneakers on her feet look like they've seen better days.

The girl he once knew never had a hair out of place, never looked less than perfect even when she was being beaten into submission. He could easily have missed her if he hadn't known where to look.

He wonders who he thinks he's kidding, he'd fucking well know her anywhere.

**

At the sound of the bell above the door she turns and sees him, and that is that. She stands in place as if frozen for a moment, and he sees something that looks like it could almost be joy cross her features. She recognises him, no matter how many years have passed.

How could she not, when his face is just the same as it ever was?

She recognises him and neither screams, nor runs, nor flinches. Instead she stands there and looks at him as if maybe this is what she'd been expecting all along.

He wonders what it was that he had expected. Not for her to run into his arms, not that. He had expected something other than this though, some reaction at least.

"Why don't you take a seat?" she asks him when she finally speaks, her voice not shaking once, no trace of surprise or recognition within it.

He chooses a booth at the back, the better to watch the entrance, and waits.

She takes her time serving one order before she gets to him, sets the coffee pot on the table and pulls the pencil out of her hair.

Takes her time, nonchalant and without a care in the world, before leaning down towards him with pad and pencil as if to take his order. "Can I get something for you?" she asks him, the ghost of a sad smile on her lips before she lowers her voice, suddenly hesitant. “What have you come here for?”

He knows then that it’s all an act.

"I’ll let you know it before too long.” He rasps, eyes locked on hers. “For now bring me a burger, medium rare.” She writes it down and pours his coffee. This time there is a slight spark in her eyes when she smiles.

The next time she comes back it's with his burger and she places it on the table before bending down as if to tie a shoelace. He has no idea what to say to her now that she's in front of him at last. He's thought about it on the way here, thought about it and come up blank.

I've come to save you.

I'll keep you safe.

I won't let anybody hurt you.

It’s years too late for all that now.

"Heard you were dead." she says to him before he can choose his own sentence, looking up from her position crouched on the floor, hands hovering near one shoe.

Once it was he who had crouched, to look up at her. 

"Almost was," he rasps, "Heard you were married to the Imp."

She makes a movement suspiciously like a shrug and stands up. "It was hardly by my choice." She retorts before continuing, "Heard you went on a killing spree out East while you were dead."

"Wasn't me." he clarifies, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Heard you helped kill your husband's shit of a nephew then ran away, leaving him to take the rap." 

She laughs suddenly then, "Maybe I did." She tells him with a trace of bitterness, then turns and walks away.

He sits there until her shift is done, drinking cups of black coffee, eating fries and watching her. She flirts with her customers, swats away hands when they get too friendly and gossips with the other waitresses in between serving. She wears a mask now, just as he had once advised her to. Plays a role for the world to see and he can’t help wondering who she really is inside these days.

He doesn't know what he expected when he came here, but probably not this. Either she's grown to be a much better actress since he last saw her or she's genuinely unconcerned that he's come to get her. Come to... The devil only knows what he's come to do.

What can he tell her after all, that he's come to rescue her? Rescue her from what, life as a waitress in a rundown diner? She's already rescued herself and he's too late after the fact.

He watches her and sees as her gaze occasionally darts in his direction, only every so often. She's careful, avoiding any suspicion that could come from giving him too much attention, but she watches him all the same. She’s grown smarter and stronger over the years, while he’s only grown weaker and is just as big a fool as ever when it comes to her.

"I’ll be off my shift soon," she tells him as the light begins to fade. "Anything else you want?"

He looks her up and down measuringly, taking in the long legs and the tight t-shirt, the curve of her neck as she tilts her head to one side.

She watches him as his eyes rake her and raises one eyebrow. The girl she used to be would have lowered her head, blushed deep red and avoided his gaze. This girl meets his eyes and challenges him to do more than just look.

He sits back against the booth then and looks at her once more, really looks at her honestly this time, with no hint of pretense or flirtation, searches her face for something he can't define.

She finds it more difficult to meet his eyes now. 

"Wait for me around the corner." She tells him in an undertone, then laughs as if he's told her a joke, gathers his payment for the food and walks back towards the counter.

He walks outside to his motorcycle, waits until she appears fifteen minutes later. The apron is gone and her hair is in a ponytail now. She looks ordinary here, as if she belongs. He wonders just where it is that he fits into this picture.

She walks over, shoes scuffing on the pavement, and smiles the first genuine smile he's seen all day.

"You still have this old thing?" she asks, pointing to the bike.

"Never let me down yet." He comments and passing her a helmet, turns to climb on. He doesn't need to tell her anything because she's already climbed up behind him and is wrapping her arms around his waist, tighter than he'd expected. He's suddenly reminded of the day of the riot, of the way she had clung to him then, scared and trembling and his to save.

She tells him where to go, then unexpectedly rests her head against his shoulder.

"I thought you were dead." She whispers. He almost doesn't hear her, she says it so quietly.

"Yeah, well, I heard you were married to the fucking Imp." Is the only reply he can give her as he starts the engine. 

He wonders if she'll guess just how related those two statements really are.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

She directs him to her apartment, two minutes away by bike. He imagines it might take her 10 to walk it. They climb up a rickety set of stairs to the room that's hers in the tenement. Some might call it a studio apartment. He calls it a one room hovel with an attached bathroom.

The only piece of furniture she seems to own is a double mattress on the floor, apart from that there's a backpack in the corner with some clothes folded neatly and stacked on top of it. There’s nothing in this place that gives off even the slightest hint of it being considered home. The kitchen off to one side consists of one bench with a sink and a gas burner. He glimpses pots and plastic plates, utensils and sparse groceries.

"Learned to cook?" he rasps out mockingly.

"Learned a lot of things." Is her cryptic reply.

He sits awkwardly on the side of her mattress while she makes them both a cup of tea.

"Did you really kill Joff?" he asks her, for want of anything better to say.

She laughs self deprecatingly, "You think I would've had enough courage to kill him? I doubt even Tyrion had a hand in it. No, that was the Tyrells’ work most likely. Managed to gain control over the Lannister empire without sacrificing their precious Margaery."

He shrugs, it hardly matters now who killed Joffrey. Tyrion’s is the official name in the report and he fled long ago to a non-extraditable country.

"Never imagined you in a place like this,” he comments as she pours the boiling water into the cups. “Always thought you'd go North, if you got the chance to get away." 

She smiles a bit sadly, pauses in her work. "Haven't you ever heard that little birds fly south for the winter?"

Sansa brings the cups over and perches beside him on the mattress, closer than he would have expected. Takes a sip and regards him over the rim of her mug.

"How'd you find me?" She finally asks.

"A spider told me." Is all he needs to reply and she instantly understands, shakes her head as if in amusement.

"You're just in time," she tells him, "I was due to leave next week."

"And go where?"

"Mexico at first, maybe somewhere even further south. I figured I could teach English, there's always a market for it. It was time to move on, in case…"

He nods, it's as good a plan as any.

She tilts her head to the side, peers at him as if trying to work something out. Her gaze is uncomfortable and he fights the urge to look away. It was never like this before, it was always her who flinched and faltered.

"Why have you come here now?" Sansa finally asks, her eyes fixed firmly on his.

He wonders how she possibly couldn't know. Hadn't he come for her all those years ago? As garbled as his words were that night, as much as he had fucked it up, has she truly never realized why he came for her that night?

He could tell her that he's come here now to save her, but he's too late for that.

He could tell her that even three years later he still wants her, still dreams of her, would still kill anyone who sought to harm her.

He could tell her that when he’s not dreaming of her he’s usually having terrible fucking nightmares about what the Lannisters might have done to her or where she might have ended up.

"Thought I'd take you away somewhere and keep you safe." He tells her instead, and bugger her for looking at him in that way as if she had expected him to say more.

She accepts it, doesn't press him for a different answer. Looks away and takes a long sip of her tea. At least she hasn't refused to go with him this time. Yet.

"Then where do we go now?" She asks him finally, and he's surprised by her calm acceptance. Maybe she's realised that he's her best bet at survival, maybe she just no longer cares. Maybe if he hadn’t been stinking drunk and held a gun to her head last time she would’ve asked him the same thing.

She's no longer the frightened little bird in need of saving that she once was, and he can't help but wonder just how late he really is. She doesn’t need him to protect her anymore, not in the way she once did. He left at the wrong time, left her unprotected, and she had to learn to guard herself.

"Follow your original plan and head south, I’ve heard your sister is down that way." He announces calmly and Sansa freezes. She reaches out suddenly to clutch his hand, so tightly that her nails dig into the flesh of it.

"She’s alive? Where is she?" she asks him, a tinge of desperation creeping into her voice. It's the first time since he’s arrived that she's completely let the mask of nonchalance slip and allowed some true emotion to freely show.

"The Spider says Colombia." Sandor tells her, "I found her three years ago, running with a gang in Los Angeles. The Brotherhood they called themselves, said they were there to give the little people justice. Biggest crock of shit I ever heard."

“I’m not the last one.” She whispers, as if to herself. For a moment she is still, unable to move, lost in her own thoughts. He reaches out a hand to touch her and she startles, turning to face him. If there is one emotion that is most clear on her face at that moment it is not joy, but relief.

She edges closer to him then, reaches out a hand to grasp his arm. "Then what happened to her?"

"I took her away from there, forced her to come with me. Was going to ransom her back to your mother and brother until they got themselves killed at that fucking wedding. After that I thought maybe I'd try taking her to your aunt’s, or get her out of the country. Then we ran into a few of my brother's men in New Mexico on our way east and after the fight she left me for dead."

Sansa nods, takes her time to process it, and then thanks him in the sincerest tone he’s ever heard.

"What for?" he asks her, not wanting her thanks for what he’d failed so badly. "I was going to ransom the little bitch, I was hardly doing it from the goodness of my heart."

"Maybe," she says, "But you didn't leave her once there was nobody left to ransom her to."

He can't argue with her on that as much as he wishes he could. Can't tell her that her sister only got away from him and that he almost died because he'd drunk himself into a stupor after he heard about her marriage to Tyrion Lannister. 

"Why now?" she asks him, "Why now after all this time?"

“Who knows? Varys has always played his own fucking game. Tides are turning against the Lannisters and maybe he’s choosing a new side.”

“But you still came for me, even though it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. You still came after all this time.” She presses, and there is something urgent in her eyes that makes him slightly uncomfortable.

“Never knew where you were before.” He replies, attempting to avoid her unspoken question.

"Would you have come for me if you did?" 

She looks him straight in the face, never flinching. There was a time when she couldn't stand to look at him. Maybe she's seen her share of killers by now. Maybe she's seen so much ugliness in the world that she's grown immune to it.

"Yes." He tells her without any preamble, he owes her that much honesty. "Maybe I wouldn't have given you a choice when I did."

"Maybe I wish you hadn't last time." She murmurs, looks away from him. Curls her toes up and scuffs them along the floor.

He doesn’t know what to say to that. She was right not to go with him that night when he was out of his mind with fear and drink. He would have fucked it all up badly somehow or other, would have gotten them both killed. What can possibly have happened to her in the interim that she regrets her choices of that night as much as he does?

"I'll help you find your sister," he promises her. "After that you can decide what happens next. Teach English in South America for the rest of your life if you want or head home and fight for what's yours. We need to get you out of the country as soon as possible though, before anyone else finds you."

"But you won't let them take me again, will you?" she asks, almost rhetorically. Turns and fixes him with her gaze, considering now. "You’ve come for me, even after all this time. You'd do anything to protect me, wouldn't you?" She shifts her hand so her fingers are touching the edge of his thigh.

He grabs her hand, moves it away from him roughly. "Don't play with me, girl." He growls at her.

She is quiet for a moment, staring down at the hand that he’s moved aside.

"Did the Spider tell you where I was these past couple of years after I disappeared?" She asks, still not looking at him, though she seems to see him shake his head. "Peter Baelish helped me to escape the Lannisters. Helped me escape and took me to my aunt in South Carolina where I was his illegitimate daughter, Alayne, product of a one night stand and ignorant of my father's identity until my mother died." she laughs bitterly. "A bastard girl, his bastard girl, but he wouldn't hesitate to try and caress me when we were alone. Take a kiss and claim it was fatherly." Her eyes are burning with anger and betrayal and it takes all the strength that Sandor has just to listen rather than swearing, or sending his fist through the wall.

Sansa still isn't looking at him, her eyes focus on a stain on the opposite wall, her hand traces patterns on her bedsheet. "And me? I knew what he wanted, knew but couldn't do a damn thing. Where could I go? Who could I run to? If the Lannisters found out where I was then I was dead, they blamed me for Joff's murder. My aunt was the only family I had left, until… well, until she was gone too. So I waited and I endured and sidestepped and I bided my time and let him teach me a few tricks along the way. Pretended that there was no Sansa Stark, that there never had been one but I remembered, oh I remembered. When I found out..." 

She stops herself abruptly, shakes her head angrily as if to rid herself of a memory. "I trusted him, no matter what else he did, I trusted him. When I found out that he was the one who betrayed my father, who let him down..."

Sandor sucks in a breath, remembering that day and his own part in it. She is right, though he had never thought of it that way before. Petyr Baelish’s betrayal is as much responsible for her father’s death and her family’s downfall as anything else was. 

“But you don’t know the whole story,” Sansa continues, looking at him now, straight in the face. “You couldn’t, nobody could. He thought he was so clever, so very clever.” 

It pours out of her, words tumbling out as if they’ve been suppressed for far too long. Of how Petyr Baelish convinced Lysa Arryn to murder her husband, then to send the letter to Sansa’s mother implicating the Lannisters so that Ned Stark would feel compelled to investigate his friend’s death. About the trickery with the gun the hitman tried to kill Bran with, about every insidious move the man ever made as he worked towards an end nobody could predict.

In that moment, Sandor hates Petyr Baelish. Hates him with a fury which before has only ever been reserved for Gregor. All the rage that he had believed was gone from him is suddenly back, threatening to overwhelm him until he forces himself to quiet it, as he has learned.

Then the moment passes and Sandor realizes that Sansa is looking at him, looking at him with an expression that he knows only too well because it is one that he has seen in the mirror more times than he can count.

"I want Petyr Baelish dead," she tells him, and the hatred in her face makes her almost unrecognisable. "I want him to die knowing that it's me who's responsible for his death." Sansa presses herself against him, her bare thigh against his leg and grasps his hand, ensures that he looks into her eyes as her breasts press against his arm. "Do this for me." She tells him, calmer now as if reasoning with him. "Do this for me and I'll give you whatever you want."

Her meaning is unmistakable and even as he feels himself harden at the implication he freezes, internally recoils because this... This is never what he truly wanted. Not like this. What has the world done to her that she feels the need to bargain herself away for his protection?

He lifts up his other hand to cup her cheek, brings his face close to hers. She is breathing heavily but there is no fear in her eyes when he brings his lips near hers. "What did they do to you, little bird?" he asks her, his voice breaking. He thinks he knows the truth of it all too well. 

At his question she lets go of him and turns her face away, unable to look him in the eye. "Will you do it for me or not?" She asks him, her eyes fixed on the floor. Her fingers tremble where she clutches the hem of her t-shirt.

He knows then, that she is not so truly dead to emotion as she pretends to be. That somewhere deep inside, the Sansa Stark he once knew is only hidden, not quite yet gone.

He wonders if by doing this one thing for her he can help to bring that girl back, a type of salvation, years and years too late. 

"I'll do it for you." he promises, as he reaches out to touch her chin. "I'll see the bastard dead, bring you his head on a platter if that’s what it takes to help you sleep at night." He'll see Littlefinger die for what he's done to Sansa Stark, give him a death that's probably better than he deserves. 

Sansa turns to him, eyes shining with an almost manic happiness. "I knew you would," she whispers, reaching out to clutch his hand. "I knew you would."


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and a well deserved death.

Chapter Three

In the morning, Sansa will board a bus to New Mexico, to the Brothers at the same Mission that once saved him, helped him to become a better man. He hopes that perhaps she might be able to find some measure of peace there just as he once did.

She is to wait two weeks for him there, no more. If he does not return to her by then, he is either dead or compromised and she will have to make her own way forward. Sandor writes a note for her to give to the Brothers asking them to look after her, writes another with the details he knows regarding her sister for her to keep, telling her to memorise it all on the bus ride just in case. He hands over most of whatever cash he’s carrying to her, knowing that she will need it if he doesn’t make it through.

“But this…” she starts to say, and then looks at him, as if wondering what he might want in return. 

He cannot blame her, for a long time any grace that she has received has come with a proviso, some hidden cost that she did not realize at the time but had to pay later.  
Perhaps the last one to show her any true kindness with no expectation of anything in return was him, and he showed her little enough.

But she has forgotten what such kindness looks like, and she will not understand it from him now, so instead he gruffly says. “I’ll take it back from you when I return. If I don’t, then money’s of no fucking use to me if I’m dead.”

This she can understand, and so she accepts.

It is when the time comes to sleep that he is sorely tested, because suddenly there she is standing before him, visibly nervous but with a hand outstretched to touch him. Does she think that he means to hold her to her offer right now? Perhaps she feels that he’ll want to claim his end of the bargain tonight in case he really does end up dying in the attempt. He almost laughs at the thought. 

But no matter how much she tempts him, he will not break her further. 

“Go to sleep, little bird.” He tells her instead, “We’ve both got a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

Sandor settles himself down on one side of her mattress, his back turned to her and closes his eyes. He listens as she walks to turn out the light before she settles herself in, her position mirroring hers. Through a lifetime of habit he falls into a light sleep quickly. 

It is a few hours later and still dark when he wakes and aware of some difference he concentrates, listening for any sound that could have disturbed him. It is then that he hears her whispering.

He does not know how much time has passed, but Sansa has rolled over so that she is now facing him, has edged herself closer so that she must now be in the middle of the mattress. She is whispering and he holds himself still, in order to listen to what she says before she knows that he is awake.

“I thought that you were dead.” She whispers. “I thought you were dead, and I wished, I wished that I had gone with you. I wished I’d made another choice.”

There is silence, and then, “I thought you were dead.” She whispers once more, and he wonders if she is talking to him or herself. “Once I realized… I used to pray that you would come for me, you were the last hope I had, the only one who ever told me the truth, and then I heard you would dead and I knew… I knew…When I saw that you’d come for me even after all this time, that you’d come for me…”

She does not finish the sentence and eventually he hears her settle and her breathing deepen into that of sleep.

Turning himself over, he places one arm over her casually before pulling her closer.

This time it is she who pretends not to have awoken.

**

In the morning he watches as she packs, stuffing her pitifully few belongings into her backpack, the money he’d given her hidden near the bottom. He sees her glance at him as she hurries to place one item in, something that appears to be leather, but she is too fast for him to realize exactly what it is that she’s trying to hide. 

Finally she stands, hefts the pack onto slender shoulders, takes one last look around the room that she’s called home the last few months and nods to tell him she’s ready. She leaves the door unlocked and a note on the counter to say she’s left, moved on, so that her coworkers might not worry.

It is still early when they make their way downstairs to his motorcycle, the sun not yet fully risen and the air chilly. He climbs on and waits as she buckles up her helmet before settling herself behind him. She winds her arms around his waist and holds on tight. 

The journey is short and they arrive early to the town that her bus will leave from, he buys them both breakfast after they’ve purchased her ticket, eating in silence in a diner not so different from the one he found her in. 

She glances at him from time to time, looking up from her pancakes, but she does not speak and he struggles to find something to say. Too many years have passed and all of the things he once told her are no longer necessary. She has taken his advice and applied it over the years, taken all of his advice perhaps a bit too strongly to heart. 

He is not sure whether to regret his harshness with her or not. Did he contribute to her transformation into this broken girl, or has everything he told her in that time served to keep her alive?

She is not ready yet to hear what he would tell her now, and perhaps it is better that she does not anyway. Not yet. 

When they are done he walks her to the bus terminal, carrying her bag for her while she follows him, quiet and listless. Sandor uses the opportunity to scan the other passengers for potential threats, and quiz her on the route she’s to take to ensure that she has the details memorized. 

It is when the bus pulls up and he moves to help her board that she grabs his arm tightly, a sudden urgency in her.

He lowers his head to look her in the eyes, a question in his. 

“Don’t go.” She blurts out, “I shouldn’t have asked you to. Come with me instead. I’ll… I’ll… whatever you… but come with me instead.”

He shakes his head sadly, looking down at her and reaches out to cup her cheek. 

“You can’t have it both ways, little bird.” He tells her quietly. “If he’s to die then I have to leave you, and he does need to die. We won’t be safe otherwise.”

“But what if you don’t come back?” She asks, so quietly it is almost a whisper. 

“Then I’ll be dead.” He tells her matter of factly, “And you’ll still be better off than before you knew I was alive.”

She’s shaking her head but the bus driver is looking at them impatiently and Sandor holds out the bag for her and gives her a gentle push in the direction of the bus. “Go on now, little bird.” He tells her, “I’ll come back, you’ll see.”

She nods once and seems to steel herself, her mask of calm slipping back into place. 

“Go on now.” He repeats, nodding towards the bus. He will be back, he knows it. Petyr Baelish poses no challenge for him. 

She moves forward suddenly and reaching for him, raises her face to his, kissing him hard upon the mouth. 

Her bag forgotten, he drops it and presses her against him, deepens the kiss and allows himself to taste her before he lets her go, conscious of the eyes of the entire bus upon them.

“One real memory.” Sansa murmurs, “Just one real memory.” 

Then she’s darting into the bus, making it to her seat before they close the door. He watches her until she’s out of sight, raising his own hand in goodbye in reply to hers. 

Sandor climbs on his bike and leaves to kill Petyr Baelish.

**

Two days of surveillance and then he makes his move. 

It has been years since Sandor last killed and yet it is extraordinarily simple to dispatch Littlefinger’s household guards. A silenced gun, four shots and he’s wiped out the men patrolling the house. It’s extraordinarily little protection in Sandor’s opinion but he’s not going to rue his good luck.

A quick cut of the wire on the security system and he makes his way upstairs without the alarm, quickly reaching the room that Sansa has told him is Baelish’s. There is a child in the house, Sansa’s young cousin, and though he might be locked in his room at night with a nurse, Sandor doesn’t wish to alert them to his presence.

Baelish’s room is not locked when Sandor turns the handle, he supposes that the man feels he has nothing to fear within his own house. He’s concocted his schemes so carefully that most of his victims have never even realized who their true enemy was. Sandor opens the door quietly, steps in and turns the lock to trap them both inside. They’ll die together if need be, but Littlefinger will not escape him.

His eyes already adjusted to the dark, he can see Baelish sleeping. It would be the easiest thing in the world to put a bullet in him now before he wakes up, but Sandor has promised Sansa that Littlefinger will know who is responsible for his death before the end, and he will not lie to her. So he walks forward, feet silent against the carpet and turns on the bedside lamp. 

His target is startled awake but sits up sluggishly, and Sandor guesses that he might still be under the effects of too much drink.

Baelish spots him where he stands by the bedside with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, the man’s eyes widening in surprise and a fear that he quickly tries to hide. Instead, Petyr Baelish collects himself and regains his composure, a slight smile coming to his face.

“Clegane, I heard you were dead.” Baelish remarks, “And yet here you are in my bedroom like a ghostly apparition.”

Sandor grunts. “I’m alive, as you can see.”

“Yes, you are.” Baelish remarks, and Sandor can well see the nervousness in him though he tries to hide it. “Why exactly are you here?”

“To kill you.” Sandor tells him simply, with no preamble. “I’ll make it quick, which is more than you deserve.”

The fear is more apparent in Baelish’s eyes now, but so is a calculation that Sandor recognizes well. “Now, I know I’ve never harmed you personally, Clegane, so you must be here on someone’s behalf.” Littlefinger starts, in a reasoning tone of voice. “Whoever it is, I can offer you more than they have. If you’d be willing to join my service then I can give you more riches than you could imagine, all the whores you could ever want as well.”

Sandor lets out a low barking laugh, enjoying seeing the other man squirm. “I’m not here for money, Baelish, and I would’ve killed you while you slept if I didn’t want you to know who was responsible for your death.”

“And who is it then?” Littlefinger asks him, still calculating, still wondering how he might turn this around.

“The little bird that flew away from your nest. Asked me to kill you, asked me to ensure that you knew it was her who caused your downfall. All your careful planning all these years, and in the end a little slip of a girl you thought you could manipulate got the better of you. She’ll have her revenge for her family.”

“Sansa Stark…” Petyr Baelish murmurs, a sudden understanding coming to his eyes and a deeper panic than before. He’s begun to realize that he can’t talk his way out of this one. “What did she promise you? She’s a lying little bitch and she’ll screw you over as soon as she’s gotten what she wants from you just like she did to me. Whatever tale she’s told you isn’t true, I protected her, saved her from the Lannisters, I never…”

Sandor cuts him off with a raised hand, “She promised me the chance to kill you for what you’ve done to her, and that was good enough for me.” 

Petyr Baelish opens his mouth to say something, to yell perhaps, but Sandor is too fast for him. In one swift motion he brings the knife up to slice through the other man’s throat. He watches as Baelish gurgles and gasps, wraps the knife up before putting it into his jacket, the better to present it to her. 

“For the little bird.” He murmurs as he watches the other man die. 

May no man ever harm her again.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It takes him almost three days to reach the Mission, even though he stops only to sleep and eat. The night he kills Petyr Baelish he travels until dawn, until he’s far enough away, far enough to collapse in some nondescript motel that doesn’t even care to record the names of its guests and sleeps the day away. 

He wakes up in the late afternoon and drives through the night again, eager to be back with her. She may not need him as she once did, but he believes that she needs protecting all the same. Needs someone to watch over her as she struggles to put the pieces of her broken life back together. Someone who won’t take advantage of her, as it would be so very easy to do.

Even with the evidence of his deeds close to hand, he wishes he could kill Littlefinger all over again. Wishes that he could kill every last Lannister, Frey, Bolton and all the rest of them for her, though it wouldn’t bring a single member of her family back. 

The Lannisters seem to be doing a fine job of finishing themselves off without any help from him however. Last he’d heard, Cersei was in disgrace and had lost control of the empire and Kevan had been murdered. He’s heard that even Jaime Lannister has started fucking someone who isn’t his sister these days, has ignored Cersei’s calls for him to come to her aid. So much the fucking better for him. There’s still Tyrion, Sansa’s husband legally if in no other regard, but Sandor suspects that he hates his family almost as much as the little bird does. 

He arrives at the Mission, early in the morning when most of the brothers are only just beginning to rise, and immediately seeks out Elder Brother, knowing that he will be sitting on the same hillside Sandor has known him to sit on for the past two years, watching the sun rise. 

“So you’ve returned.” The older man comments, as Sandor sits down beside him.

“Did you doubt it?” Sandor grunts.

“No, but the girl was worried.” Elder Brother replies, “She’s barely spoken since she arrived here, has kept to herself.”

“She’s…” Sandor isn’t quite sure what to say, when he knows so little about what she is now. “Has she said anything to you?”

Elder Brother shakes his head, “She’s polite, but she won’t speak more than what’s required. We’ve let her be, it seemed to be best.” He claps Sandor on the shoulder, “Her documents are ready, as are yours. You can leave whenever you like.”

“Thank you,” Sandor tells the older man gruffly, “And for looking after her while I…”

Elder Brother holds up his hand to stop Sandor from stating it. “We will miss you here Sandor, but this was never your path. Look after her, try to help her as you were once helped.”

**

She is sitting in the Mission’s garden when he finds her, staring into the distance as if in deep thought. There is a blankness on her face that he cannot quite like, a sign that she has grown too adept at hiding her feelings. 

Her hair is dyed dark brown now, the better to fit in where they’re going. Sandor can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever see her as she was again, those glorious locks of fire, if it will ever be safe for her to reveal her true self. 

He’ll keep her safe, he swears it. He’ll never let anybody hurt her again. 

He steps towards her without her hearing him, and it is only when he lays a heavy hand on her shoulder that she startles. There is fear in her eyes before she sees his face and then a stark relief. She moves to stand but he stops her with a press of his hand and steps in front of her instead. As she stares at him silently, wonderingly, he kneels in front of her. 

“Here, little bird,” he tells her, holding the knife out solemnly. “Petyr Baelish is dead, and good riddance to him. He died by my hand, but by your word, and he knew it before the end.”

Knew that of all the people whose lives he’d ruined, of all the damage he’d done, it had been one defenseless girl who’d finally managed to get the better of him.

She reaches out to take the knife from him with shaking hands, holding it almost wonderingly, staring at the blood on it unblinkingly, as if it is impossible for her to look away. 

When she looks at him again, still kneeling in front of her, there are tears in her eyes. She reaches out to touch his scarred cheek, cupping it as she once had all those years ago. 

“I knew you would.” She tells him, and the simple trust in her voice almost knocks him over. 

They stay that way for a long moment, her hand upon his cheek while he kneels in front of her. She is calm, her earlier fear when he had left her seemingly gone, but he feels her fingers tremble against him and knows that she is holding it inside. 

He had taught her that, to hide what she thought and felt, to give them only what they wanted. Now she uses it upon him, stopping him from knowing her true state. 

Then Sansa looks down at the knife in her other hand, a momentary confusion passing over her and Sandor reaches out to take it from her gently. 

“Let it be buried here, little bird.” He tells her, “Let it be buried and over with and let it remain behind as we move forward.”

She nods once, suddenly strong in her decision, and he goes to fetch a spade. 

**

The rest of the day is spent in conference with Elder Brother, finalizing their plans. 

Sandor’s motorcycle will remain at the Mission, to be reclaimed if they ever pass this way again. They are close to the border here and they will cross it by bus, their forged documents good enough to stand up to close scrutiny. Sandor does not fear the border police, there is nobody looking for either of them now. He’s been dead for too many years and the missing Stark heiress hasn’t made the news for some time. 

Their passports make them husband and wife, a cruel joke if ever he’s heard one, but at least it will enable him to stay by her side, to share a room and guard her at all times, to protect her as a husband would if anybody should try to get too close. 

They’ll spend one more night here before they leave in the morning, no time to waste in case the consequences of Baelish’s killing should catch up to them. Sandor retires early, leaving them directly after dinner as Sansa picks at the food on her plate. They’ve been placed in separate rooms, though nearby, and he doesn’t think to see her until the next morning when they’re due to leave. 

He falls asleep quickly, exhausted by the journey of the last few days, only to awaken a few hours later in the pitch dark, alerted by some movement.

His eyes adjust to the moonlight creeping in from outside the shutters and he spots her, sitting perched on the edge of the bed, looking at him he suspects, despite the dark. He has no idea what she’s doing there, why she’s crept into his room, and only hopes that she doesn’t plan to offer herself to him again, here and now. 

He sighs, sits up slightly and pats the bed beside him. 

“Lie down.” He tells her, “My face might look better this way, but there’s no reason to sit there all night staring at me in the dark.”

He wonders if she blushes at the words, but she gives no sign of embarrassment, crawling onto the bed and making her way up to him, climbing under the sheets. 

She shifts slightly, self consciously, lying on her side so that her skin touches his but without pressing herself to him. 

Internally cursing whatever gods there might be to hell, he reaches out and lifts her, shifts her so that she lies half across him, her head pillowed on his chest. 

“Sleep now.” He tells her, curving his arm under her so that it snakes around to rest upon her head, a comforting weight. He holds her with the other arm, holds her close and wonders if it’s what she wanted. 

She brings her own hand up to curl against his chest, clutches his shirt and gives a slight sigh. 

He feels himself drifting back to sleep but for some reason he waits, expecting something, and sure enough she begins to whisper.

“It was never your scars that made me turn away, not truly. That wasn’t why I couldn’t look at you. It was the rage in you that scared me, but now… now that is gone.” She pauses, flattens her palm against his chest, right above his heart. “I prayed for the rage in you to be quieted, for you to find peace, and now…”

“Pity that was the only prayer of yours that came true, little bird.” He whispers back, unable to help himself, even though he knows that he should be pretending to be asleep.

“But it wasn’t.” She replies before she relaxes, her hand curling against him once more and her breathing becoming heavy. 

It is a long time before he sleeps. 

**

She is gone in the morning, crept out while he was fast asleep and he wonders about it. 

Did she fear waking up to face him, to a repeat of those truths in the harsh light of day? 

He bathes and dresses quickly, stuffs the rest of his meager belongings into the bag that the Brothers have provided him with. Knocks on her door and she opens it, dressed and ready and her gaze calm, with no acknowledgement of her visit to him last night. 

“We’ll have our breakfast quickly and then they’ll drop us to the bus station.” He informs her and she nods her agreement, following him a step or two behind as he makes his way to the dining hall. They both take their bags with them, not wanting any unnecessary delays. 

Elder Brother breaks his fast with them and then asks them to wait, briefly praying over their heads, that they might be protected by his god. 

Sansa murmurs her thanks quietly and makes her way outside, while Elder Brother stays Sandor with a gesture of his hand. 

“She needs you,” He tells Sandor quietly, “Don’t let her down.”

“Never.” Sandor promises, a fervent vow. The only vow he’ll ever make. 

Outside he finds her with her face tilted up towards the sun, a deep sadness upon it that she tries to hide when she spots him.

“Time to fly south for the winter, little bird.” He tells her, and reaches out to take her hand.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The bus ride is long and he’s thankful for the air conditioning as she dozes upon his shoulder. He sits in the seat next to the aisle, the better to protect her if it should come to that, and ignores the stares of their fellow passengers. He knows they must make a strange pair – she, a pretty young woman; he, her older scarred companion. Yet the world has seen stranger and nobody thinks to question them. 

She had been awake for the border crossing, presenting her passport with a bright smile and completing the formalities. After that she had chatted to him for a couple of hours, uncomplicated small talk about the holiday that they were apparently going on, a young couple on a grand adventure. It is all a ruse for their fellow passengers and he’s amazed at how deftly she does it, spinning web upon web of lies to form a cover story for them. For his own part he limits his conversation, nodding and giving short answers to her questions or exclamations. 

Six hours over the border and she lays her head on his shoulder just as dusk begins to fall. He wonders if she’d planned this too, in order to paint the right picture.

Time passes and lulled by the motion of the bus and the sense that for now at least they are secure, he drops off to sleep as well. He wakes hours later to find that it is still dark, the scenery passing by outside in a blur, and looks down to find that she has curled further into him, their hands now entwined. Sleeping, her features for once at peace, she reminds him of the girl she used to be – far too innocent and full of hope for the world she lived in. 

He wishes he knew what she wanted from him; what she truly wanted, not what she thinks she must give in order to secure his protection. 

She need not doubt that he’ll keep her safe; it’s all he’s wanted since the day he told her the story of his scars, the day that she had reached out and touched him against all odds. He’d thought to frighten her, thought to show her exactly how fucked up life could be and that there were no such things as heroes. Instead she’d tried to comfort him, seen past his show of rage and recognised the pain within.

He’d known then, that she wasn’t like the rest. He’d known that he was well and truly lost.

**

He wakes her up as they pull into a highway stop for breakfast, shakes her shoulder slightly until she opens her eyes and peers up at him, the blue of them almost blinding.

Sansa smiles sleepily for a moment, a real smile though seemingly puzzled as she tries to work out where she is. 

The moment passes and she sits up, schools her expression to one that is more neutral. 

“We’ll grab some food, use the bathroom if you need to.” He tells her, “I’ll stand guard outside while you do.” 

“I had a dream.” She replies, still unfocused, then shakes her head and moves to stand. 

She doesn’t tell him what it was, and he prefers not to ask.

**

It is their last stop before they reach their destination and she doesn’t sleep now, instead she stares out the window at the scenery, occasionally pointing something out to him. He can tell that she’s guarded once more, careful of what she might let slip. 

Midmorning and they’re deposited at a bus station in Mexico City. He waits until she has her pack on and then grabs her hand, not wanting to lose her in the crowd. She seems surprised for a moment and then tightens her fingers around his, interlacing them. Her hand is soft and warm and for a moment he forgets to wonder whether this is acting too. 

They take a taxi to a hotel near the Zocalo, a budget place intended for backpackers that Elder Brother had recommended because they won’t stand out. 

She takes his hand again as they sit in the taxi without any prompting to but stares out the window at the sights rather than looking at him, her eyes widening at something or the other, the excitement not feigned this time. 

“I’ve never been to Mexico before,” She admits, turning around to face him. “Do you think… I mean, could we…”

“We’ll hang around for a few days, act the part of tourists.” He tells her, his voice low so that the cab driver might not hear them. “Better to shake off any attention and keep anyone who’s watching guessing.”

She smiles then, and he knows that she means it. It is a small thing but he is glad that he might do it for her, give her a few days to pretend she’s a girl like any other, a tourist in a foreign land. 

They check in, paying in advance for five days, and carry their bags up to the room. The walls are thin, noise leaking in from both the corridor and the traffic outside. The room is simple but clean as can be expected at a hotel like this one. There is only one bed and Sansa’s eyes dart across to him for a moment as if she’s trying to work out exactly what his intentions are. It’s for the best though, the less attention they draw to themselves the better and they’re meant to be a couple here on a simple holiday, come to see the sights.

And see the sights they do, walking out after they’ve left their bags in the room to see cathedrals and squares and ruins. He keeps a hand upon her at all times lest he lose her, constantly alert for any danger here in a strange place where he doesn’t quite know the rules. 

None presents itself though, it begins to seem as if the world truly has forgotten them and there’s nobody left on their trail. So he wraps his arm around her waist and Sansa leans into him as she checks a guidebook they’ve picked up at a second hand book store, reading out points about whatever place they’ve come to. 

She practices her Spanish, sounding out the words and laughing suddenly when she remembers a phrase correctly. 

“Mrs Mordane would be disappointed with how much I’ve forgotten.” Sansa comments as they eat their lunch, her attempts to explain herself to the waiter having been halting and needing some correction. “She always said I had a talent for languages, I did love learning them, I used to think…”

She breaks off suddenly, shaking her head and gives him a rueful smile. He knows that she feels she’s revealed too much but for her to have spoken even this much about her past is a start, an important step.

“You used to think what, Sansa?” He prods, keeping his posture purposefully relaxed, leaning back in his chair to take another sip of his beer.

She smiles then, a little self consciously, and looks down at her hands. 

“I used to think that perhaps I could go into diplomacy one day. It seemed like such an exciting life, travelling the world, meeting people, helping to solve problems. I had thought that perhaps one day, after university…”

She trails off, and he knows why. There was no university for her, no chance to choose a career either, only a hasty forced marriage to the Imp as soon as she turned 18 in order to secure her claim. Whatever dreams she’d had when she was younger she assumes are long since over, with no chance to reclaim them. 

“You’d be good at it.” He rasps, looking at her over the rim of the bottle, ensuring that she meets his gaze. “The fact you stayed alive as long as you did in the Lion’s den and then later with Littlefinger shows that. It’s not too late. You’re only 21, you’ve got a whole life ahead of you to do these things.”

Sansa gives him a small smile, as if she believes his words. “Maybe.” She tells him, and he hopes that perhaps she’s begun to consider possibilities for once this quest of theirs is over and they have her sister safely back with them again. Whether that future might include him or not is something that he won’t dwell on for now, not until they’ve overcome the immediate challenge. 

They head out again into the city again, this time to visit a museum, and he watches as she wanders around the exhibits, reading placards and gazing wonderingly at ancient artifacts. 

It’s almost easy to pretend that they are simple tourists, that’s there’s no decision more challenging for them to make than what to see that day or where to eat their dinner. Years ago he’d dreamed of this, though at the time he’d never have had the courage to admit it. If she’d agreed to go with him that night, if he hadn’t fucked it up so badly, then they might have ended up here sooner. 

Yet what’s done is in the past and perhaps it’s best that they lost each other for a time. He’s not entirely certain that it all wouldn’t have gone to hell if he’d taken her with him that night. He’d never have hurt her, no, not on purpose, but he hadn’t known what the fuck he was doing and he would’ve likely gotten them both killed sooner or later, or eventually driven her away. 

And now here they are, three years after that night, time and fate and the Spider having brought them back together again. 

They go out to dinner to a cheap touristy restaurant in the neighbourhood of their hotel, where they order too many dishes and drink far too much beer. There are locals here as well as tourists and nobody pays much attention to them when they walk in. If anything it is the little bird who draws more curiousity than he does, young men glancing over at her as if wondering if they should try their luck only to lose their courage when they see him by her side.

The restaurant is crowded and loud, music playing at a level that easily masks conversation. Sansa brings her chair in closer so that they might talk, scooting over until their thighs are touching, leaning slightly into him as they eat and drink.

“What did you do after my sister left you in New Mexico?” She asks him curiously, eyes bright from too much drink but still focused. “Were you at the Mission all this time?”

“I was,” Sandor affirms, “The first few months after they found me I was useless for anything, could barely walk while the scar in my leg was healing. They set me to prayer, but I’ve never been much good at that, so they gave me work to do instead.”

“What type of work?” Sansa asks him, “I know that you… that you used to be a soldier before you joined the Lannisters.”

“Killing is the only work I’ve known since the time I was old enough to leave home, the only one I was ever good enough for.” Sandor answers her, aware that his tone reveals a bit too much bitterness but unwilling to mask it. “The Brothers set me to working with my hands; tending their gardens, digging graves for the villagers when it was needed, working at carpentry or with machines; It was a quiet life, it taught me a measure of peace and patience.”

“And yet you left it,” Sansa muses, “To return to this world.”

“I never intended to stay there,” Sandor tells her, turning his head to look at her where she sits by his side, noticing the contemplative look on her face. “There was nothing left for me to return to at first and I was a wanted man, so I waited and bided my time. Then I heard from the Spider that you’d been found and I took my leave and headed to Arizona the same day.”

“For me,” Sansa murmurs, her finger tracing the beads of moisture that slide slowly down the outside of the bottle she holds. “You came back to this life for me.”

“For the best. Can you imagine me as a Holy Brother, doling out Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers for the rest of my life?” Sandor rasps, wanting to distract her from the melancholy he senses she’s about to slip into. 

Sansa shakes her head at that, smiling, and takes a deep sip from her bottle, her mood once again lighter. 

Sandor holds his drink well as he’s always done but Sansa is swaying in her chair before too long and he thinks it might be past time to get her back to their room before she says or does something to draw attention to them. She laughs as he leads her out, laughs with such abandon that he would not have thought it possible and leans her head on his shoulder. 

Back in the room and he deposits her on the bed, still fully clothed, and begins to take off her shoes, unlacing them before he pulls them off. She sits up, pushing herself up with her hands and looks at him intently, eyes slightly unfocused. 

“Have you had enough that you want me now?” She asks him, a slight hitch in her voice at the end. 

He can’t help snorting at her question, and placing his hand on her shoulder he pushes her gently back down onto the bed. 

“Go to sleep, little bird. You’re drunk and out of your mind.” He tells her and turns out the lights, moving easily in the dark to complete his own preparations. 

Ten minutes later and he’s in bed with her, resolutely sticking to his own side, when he feels it - the slight tremour as she shakes with suppressed tears, her back turned to him. There is much that he does not understand – why she cries now, and whether it is related to his refusal or simply a result of all she’s been through in the past week. She’s had too much to drink to be able to hold it inside her tonight but he doubts that even now she would tell him honestly what is in her heart.

He moves then, turns towards her and reaches out, pulls her flush against him, one arm snaking under her neck to wind around her front and grasp her shoulder, the other thrown over her and digging into her stomach. Buries his face in the hair at the nape of her neck and inhales deeply. Given their position it’ll soon become apparent just how damn much he does want her, and so much the better that she understands it once and for all. 

“Will you tell me?” He asks her, his arms tight around her, his mouth close to her ear. 

She shakes her head mutely, and he can feel her draw in a long, deep breath where his chest presses against her back. He understands, he won’t press when she’s not ready, when she’s still learning to trust again after so long without it. 

“One day,” She whispers, “One day, I’ll tell you everything.”

But not tonight.

He lifts a hand to brush the hair away from her neck so that he might place a kiss upon her shoulder, his lips rough against her skin. He allows it to be that way for a moment before his hand returns to her stomach, his face remaining close to the back of her head. 

She shudders and then quiets, curls into him, brings one hand to rest upon his. 

He holds her like that for the rest of the night, wakes up still holding her, and wonders if he’ll ever be able to let her go.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave reviews and let me know that you're enjoying this, it genuinely does mean a lot to me! A big thank you once again to Kimberlite8 for all of her help with this!

Chapter Six

Their remaining four days in Mexico City pass in a haze.

By day they see the sights and Sandor finds himself dividing his time between watching out for danger and watching her. She affects a lightheartedness when they are out in public, smiling and exclaiming excitedly over anything new. He watches her practice her Spanish, rusty yet growing more confident with every day, watches as she wins over the locals with her smiles. Despite her act, he can feel the tension in her as she holds onto his arm and knows that the thought of where they’re going and what they hope to do is never far from her mind. And so he watches her, observes the duality that has been created in her, the masks she has made to protect herself. 

She plays a role for the world to see but there are still hints there to the girl she truly is. Her pleasure in the new things that they see and do is real, even if her reactions are purposely schooled. Her reluctance to let go of him or to have him out of her sight when they are in public is all too true. She has had so long without trust or friendship that now that she has it again she fears losing it, fears losing him. He knows that she would have survived on her own even if he hadn’t found her, perhaps even flourished. Yet the stakes are higher now, now that she once again has something to lose. 

Their nights take on a certain pattern, every night beginning the same way, the lights switched off with each of them on their own side of the bed. Yet rather than sleeping he allows his breathing to slow and waits, waits for her to begin to speak. It is a nightly ritual now, and he has grown used to it, to the things that she cannot say to his face under the light of day. He thinks that perhaps after so long with nobody to trust, able only to whisper her secrets to the silences and the dark when she was alone, that Sansa has lost the confidence to speak the truth to anybody but herself.

She whispers her thoughts to him as he pretends to sleep and he treasures them all, stores them deep within himself to keep them safe. Most often he does not reply when she speaks about her time with the Lannisters or Littlefinger, not knowing whether she wants the illusion to be broken. But he holds her, always, mostly because he can and partly because he hopes that it might bring a measure of comfort to her, to know that she is not alone. He has grown accustomed to her curling into him as the night wears on, her hands light upon him but clenching his shirt tightly, her head tucked in underneath his chin. It may take years for her to build up her confidence again, to feel safe enough to completely let her guard down around him, but in these moments she allows herself to. 

It may take years, but five days since they left their own country and already he sees the difference. There are moments now, entire hours sometimes, when Sansa allows her true self to shine through. A gentle, timid smile. A hesitant laugh. An agitation when she speaks of her sister and their reunion.

It is a strange thing that far away from what should have been their home and in a land where they are strangers, they find themselves more comfortable. Perhaps it is because in this place they know themselves to be outsiders and are comfortable with the bare truth of it, no pretense of belonging needed. Sandor has found that here there is less revulsion when people notice his face. Old women may make the sign of the cross when they see him, but the young men tend to look at him with a kind of awe. He wonders if perhaps after they’ve found Arya they might stay, make a life for themselves somewhere south of the border, far away from all those who ever hurt her. He is not certain what it is that Sansa wants though, is not certain that she knows it herself. 

“Do you think that Arya will know me now?” Sansa asks him, the day before they are due to leave for Colombia. “It has been four years since we saw each other. She’s eighteen now, and I… I’ve aged too. With my hair like this, and… what if she doesn’t know me? What if I don’t recognize her?”

Sandor shrugs, and takes a bite of his lunch as he considers his answer. “You’ll have a whole lifetime to get to know each other again, little bird. Whatever else, she’ll recognise my ugly face at least. You’ll know each other, she’s kin and blood calls to blood.”

Sansa nods and returns her attention to her own food but he notices that she barely eats, pushing her meal around the plate.

“We left each other on bad terms,” Sansa finally continues, looking up at him and briefly catching his eye before she looks away. “What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she blames me for…” She looks down, down to her hands, clenching cutlery far too tightly.

“Hey.” He says loudly, says it again until she finally looks up at him, not quite meeting his gaze. “You were seventeen when your father died, seventeen and knew far too little about the world and the bastards who inhabited it. Your father got in over his head, didn’t understand the game that was being played until far too late and still thought he could win at it. None of it was your fault, not a bit of it. You’re older now, so is she. We’ve all done things that we’re not proud of, she’ll have a few of her own by now in addition to your list. You can’t live bound by the past, Sansa. Move on and leave it behind where it belongs.”

They’ve both had their dark times, she and him, and he would bet that her younger sister has too. Sandor has learned his share of proverbs during his time with the Brothers - let he who hasn’t sinned cast the first stone. Sansa shouldn’t worry too much, in the end if the brat wants to cast stones she’ll probably be throwing them at him.

Sansa nods and he wonders whether she’s accepted his advice or is only doing so to appease him. She might think that she has sins to atone for, but they’ll never be anything compared to his. Of all the sins that he regrets most, it’s those against her that he can’t let go of, even years later. 

He hadn’t been that young a man when he’d come to her on a night when the world was on fire. Twenty seven years old and he should have known better. His whole life until that point he’d been treated like a dog, kicked one too many times and he’d known nothing of how to be kind. He’d take that night back if he could, he’d take back at least half the things he’s done if he had the power to. Looking at her across the table from him, the pain in her expression as she considers her own past actions, he feels twice as old as he actually is. He’s done his time for the Lannisters, done more than he ever should have. 

Sandor had first gone to war at 17. Too young by far but with his father dead and Gregor on the way back to claim the family property there’d been no other choice. He’d walked into the nearest recruiting office and signed his name on the dotted line, signed away his life and hoped that they might actually take it. He’d thought he was a man then - he’d certainly learned to kill like one. 

He’d put men, women and children in the ground and learned not to care, learned to see it as a duty and nothing more. Two tours of duty and he’d come back fucked in the head and even more scarred than when he had left. He’d come back from the second with no reason to stay and had been prepared to sign up for a third when the Lannisters had come with their offer, a favour to repay his grandfather’s years of service to them. Guard Cersei and her brats, a simple enough task, and he’d thought that maybe this was his chance, the opportunity to settle down and do something besides kill. He should’ve known better. 

He’d been a different man then, forged of anger and fear and hate and only ever encouraged to hone it. 

It was only years later when he first saw her, so full of hope and dreams and life, that he’d recalled the boy he’d once been, the dreams of his own he’d once had. It was the first time in years that he’d wanted more out of life. The first time in years that he’d actually wanted anything at all. 

He’d known it then, known that it was more than simply wanting her, more than a matter of remembering long forgotten dreams. She had been his one last chance at salvation, the last he would ever have. 

Sandor wonders if she’s ever realized, if she knows that it was her that changed him, more so than the Brothers at the Mission ever could. 

He’ll tell her one day, when she’s ready to hear it. 

**

It is later that evening, while they are preparing themselves for bed, that the phone in their room rings. 

Both of them start at the sound, and Sansa turns to face him with wide eyes, her fear apparent. Nobody should know that they’re here except Elder Brother and he would never call unless it was an emergency. It is Sandor who picks up the phone in the end, forcing himself to remain calm, barking out a gruff hello in an attempt to intimidate whoever is on the other end of the line. 

“Hello yourself, Clegane.” Varys’s smooth voice comes back. “I see you made it out of the country safely, your precious cargo along with you.”

“What do you want, Varys?” Sandor grunts, refusing to allow the Spider to know exactly how rattled he is. “Just what sort of a game are you playing anyway?”

Sansa’s eyes widen further on hearing the name and looking at her, Sandor can tell that she’s about to panic. He reaches out to clamp his hand upon her shoulder, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring nod. 

Varys’s high pitched giggle echoes down the phone. “Is that all the thanks I get for delivering the girl to you, Clegane? Wasn’t that what you always wanted? I thought I should call to check on your progress, and congratulate you on ending Littlefinger’s reign.”

“I’ll say it again, Varys, what do you want? Littlefinger was no friend of yours for you to weep over. You gave me the information and I’m thankful for it, but I won’t be a pawn in some game of yours, do you hear me?”

“Oh Clegane, we’re all pawns in someone’s game or other in the end, the sooner you realize it the better. I haven’t called to threaten you, I’m a wellwisher to your cause. Poor Sansa Stark, with everything she’s been through, and her little sister too, lost for years. Aren’t I allowed to do something for the unfortunate girls?”

“Speak your piece and be done, Varys. You’ve never had any concern for either of them before. Continue whatever game you’re playing but if harm comes to her then I’ll make you pay for it. Don’t think your webs will keep you safe if I ever come for you.”

The high pitched titter sounds a little nervous this time, but that could simply be an act. “Now, now, Clegane. I’ve already told you that I’m your wellwisher. I was calling to tell you that a man of mine will meet you in Colombia, to guide you to Arya Stark and help you take her back.”

“I don’t want any guiding, nor any man of yours. Tell me where she is now and we’ll find her ourselves.”

“Oh but that won’t be so simple,” Varys continues, his voice sober for once. “The girl is in deep with an organization and you won’t be able to remove her on your own. Yet remove her you must, since if she remains she shall place one of my other pieces at risk. Try to find her on your own and you’ll fail. My man will come to you in Colombia, check into whatever hotel you wish and by the next day he’ll have found you. If you want the younger Stark girl then you’ll just have to trust him.”

The line goes dead and Sandor places the receiver back in its cradle with a clang. He’d been kidding himself all this time that they were safe, that they’d escaped. If the Spider can find them then others can too, and there’s no way to tell whether Varys’s intentions really are noble or not. 

Sansa’s hands twitch where she clasps them tightly in her lap and sighing, Sandor reaches out to rest his own hand on top of them.

“Varys says one of his men will meet us when we arrive in Colombia, he’ll take us to your sister.”

“And what if it’s a trap?” Sansa asks him, fear apparent in her eyes. “What if Arya’s not there, or not alive at all, and he’s been lying to us the whole time?”

“He could’ve killed us back in Arizona, or in New Mexico, or here if he wished.” Sandor tells her, “No, he wants us to find your sister for some purpose of his own, though I know not what. We’ll both be on the lookout, but we’ll have to trust him for now.”

Sansa laughs hollowly, “Trust? The worst mistakes I’ve made in my life were based on trust. Trust if you wish to, but I won’t believe until I see my sister with my own eyes.” 

It is he who first taught her to think like this, to question the actions and motives of those around her. She has learned harsh lessons on the futility of trust since then – from Cersei and Joffrey and Petyr Baelish. They repaid the trust she’d placed in them with death and betrayal.

“I’ll trust.” Sandor tells her, “But I’ll also get us some protection as soon as we’ve reached Bogota, it’ll be good to have steel in my hand again. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

Sansa nods, confirming that she can and it surprises him, her little sister had had a fascination for weapons but Sansa had never had an interest previously. Just one more thing that she’s learned since he last saw her. At his raised eyebrow, she chooses to elaborate.

“There was a firing range near my aunt’s house. I used to go sometimes when I felt…” She takes a deep breath, her gaze darting away and back to him. “When I felt powerless, when I felt trapped and as if there was nowhere I could go and no one I could turn to. I went, and pictured the faces of those who had hurt my family on the targets.”

He knows how hard it has been for her to admit it here, to his face and under the harsh lights of the room. He won’t press her now, won’t ask her for more until she’s ready to tell it. 

“And are you any good?” He asks her instead, choosing a safer topic.

She gives him a wry smile. “Not as good as you, but if I aim at something I’ll more than likely hit it.” She shakes her head then, her smile still askew. “I used to tell myself that you’d be proud of me if you knew of it. That I’d finally taken your advice seriously and learned to protect myself.”

“I would have been.” He tells her sincerely, even as he mulls over the fact that she had thought of him, at that time, even when she believed him dead. “I am. You should never have had to learn to protect yourself, should never have needed to, but you’ve done a good job of it.”

Sansa laughs then, mocking, self-deprecating. “A good job? What did I do, after all? I ran away and hid, then sent you to kill my enemy rather than doing it myself. All I’ve learned over the years is to lie and scheme.”

“Don’t talk that way, girl.” He tells her, more harshly than he’d intended. “Want to know what you’ve done? You’ve survived. Survived when most of your family didn’t. Survived the Lannisters, survived Littlefinger, and most of those who sought to harm you are dead now or on their way to it. Takes strength to do that, to survive, after all you’ve lost. Don’t doubt yourself.”

“After all I’ve lost…” Sansa murmurs sadly. “That’s a long list indeed. Having survived, what is there still left?”

“There’s your sister,” He reminds Sansa, “We’ll find her soon enough.”

“And when we find Arya?” Sansa asks him, softly now. “What then? Do we go back, do we…”

“Elder Brother has some friends down there, gave me some contacts.” Sandor tells her, “Once we find her we head there, they’ll keep us safe till we can make a new plan. After that… after that you make up your mind where you want to go and what you want to do.”

“And you?” Sansa asks, her attention suddenly focused upon him, alert and a hint of nervousness in her eyes. “Will you stay with us?”

“Yes. If you want me to.” He tells her simply, because it is the truth. The only way he’ll leave her is if she asks him to and even then he would probably trail her at a distance to make sure she was safe. 

“Why?” Sansa asks him earnestly. “Why, when you…”

“When I what?” He asks her, and snorts, guessing at what she’s hinting at. “I told you once, little bird, that a Hound would die for you but never lie to you. Believe me when I say it.”

“Alright.” She whispers, lowers herself down to lie upon her side on the bed, her eyes never leaving his where he sits upon its edge. It is so very hard for her to trust, but he thinks that maybe she is beginning to. If he were to allow himself to take her, to have her, would she believe him then? She’s come to think that everything in life is give and take, and he knows that she can’t quite believe he would protect her for nothing in return. 

She’ll believe it one day though, one day soon.

He turns the light off, settles himself into the bed beside her and ignoring their usual routine, immediately reaches out to pull her close. 

Waits as her breathing slows and she shifts, curling back against him, her hand light upon the arm he’s wrapped around her waist, before he begins to speak his own truths. 

He hopes that spoken this way, in the dark, she might be able to believe in them. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” He rasps, “I won’t let anybody hurt you again.” 

Sansa tightens her grip on his arm.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive, massive thanks to Kimberlite8 for all her beta'ing help with this one! Thank you also to everyone who has reviewed, spurring me on to try and get this finished!

Chapter Seven

It is still early when they make their way to the nearest Cathedral, where Sansa lights a candle in front of a statue of Mary, kneeling with her hands clasped as she whispers her prayers. Sandor says no prayers himself, even after all his time with the Brothers he still can’t bring himself to place his trust in any higher power, though he hopes the action might bring Sansa a measure of peace.

Her worship done, they check out of the hotel and head for the airport.

They haven’t bought tickets in advance, not wanting to tip anyone off to their movements in case they were being watched. Sandor supposes that that tactic is useless as far as the Spider is concerned but if there’s anyone else on their trail then he hopes that it throws them off. 

They line up at one of the airline counters outside for tickets, a backpack across each of their shoulders, and he reaches out to wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. 

It is an act, meant to help them blend into the crowd, and yet he wonders if he might have done it anyway. He has grown used to touching her over the past week, grown used to being touched. There is no way to define what there is between them, but when she rests her head against his arm and begins to hum under her breath, he feels like it is not such a lie after all. 

The flight takes around five hours and Sandor can feel the nervousness in Sansa as she sits beside him, tapping her fingers against the arm rest. Her face never betrays her, always calm, but he can read her moods and she’s on edge and working hard to hide it. 

“Sure you want the little brat back? Caused me plenty of trouble last time I saw her, doubt she’s improved any since then.”

Sansa stares at him for a moment, then realizing that he’s joking, she cracks a small smile. 

“Arya is my sister, and that is all that matters.” Sansa tells him, “I don’t know what she’ll be like now or how we might fit together anymore but I won’t let her go again. We’re the last ones left now, except for Jon, and it’s better for him that he remains well away from us. Whatever it takes, I’ll get her back.”

She is grimly determined and Sandor does not doubt that Sansa really will do whatever it takes, whether she must lie, steal, or kill, to have her little sister back again.

They step out of the airport and make their way through the crowds, towards the taxi touts who already call out to them asking where they want to go. Sandor keeps a tight hold on Sansa’s hand as they move, wanting to keep her near in this new place where it seems as if their enemies must be much closer. Sansa stands close to him, gripping his fingers back and Sandor can see her scanning the crowd, observing the way that people act and move. 

Choosing a taxi driver at random, one of the less persistent of the bunch, they climb in and Sansa explains to the driver in Spanish where they want to go. Her tone is polite and sweet and Sandor listens though he doesn’t really understand, watches the driver’s expressions and hears him respond eagerly to her questions. She is good at this, at asking the right questions and drawing people out. 

They will first head to see one of Elder Brother’s friends, an old priest who has apparently seen his share of conflict and drug wars, who is street smart enough to know what they’ll need and how to get it. Sandor hopes that first of all the man will know where to get them some guns. 

The Father is an old man, white of hair but still with some strength left in him, his posture proud. He greets them both in heavily accented English and invites them inside his small house, right next to the local Church. They sit down at his kitchen table, staring across it at each other as they sip on the cups of coffee he has made them.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the old priest tells them, and Sandor simply nods while Sansa thanks him sweetly for her help. 

“I heard you’ve come to find a girl,” the priest continues, his eyes sharp and missing nothing as he looks across at them. 

“My sister,” Sansa tells him, “lost almost four years ago.” 

“When I heard you were coming, I asked around about her, about a young girl who came here two years ago to learn the trade. She’s here alright, in the hills, but you won’t get to her so easily.”

“You’ve found out about her?” Sansa exclaims, a desperate hope in her voice, and she reaches across the table to touch his hand. “Please, tell me what you know. Where is she? What has she been doing all this time?”

The old man’s expression grows serious as he begins to tell them, regret clear in his voice. “They call her the she-wolf. The girl assassin who carries a vendetta against drug lords and kingpins, she operates like a ghost in the night. They say she came down here to learn how to kill and learn she did.”

“Oh Arya…” Sansa murmurs and Sandor sees her hand tremble where she rests it on the table, knows that she is once again thinking of all the mistakes she made, long ago.

“We’ll get her back, come what may.” He rasps, reaches out to grab her hand in his and she tightens her grip to the point where it is almost uncomfortable. “We’ll need tools for that though, you know where I can find what I need, Father?”

The old man gives them a sorrowful smile, “I’ll take you to a man. I knew you’d be needing equipment as soon as I got the call - I might be a priest now but when I was younger, I too, used to be a different man.”

**

They visit a gun seller in the backstreets of a downmarket neighbourhood, a shutter rolled up to let them in and then hastily put back down. The deal is conducted quickly, the Father explaining their requirements in Spanish to the arms dealer before Sandor chooses a .357 magnum and a Glock .38 for himself and a hunting knife in a sheath that might be strapped to his thigh. He chooses a gun for Sansa then, one light enough for her to be able to use easily and hands it to her, telling her to check the weight. 

She stares down at it in her hands and he thinks that perhaps she is wondering if she really will be able to use it, if she’ll be able to pull the trigger when the time comes. Then her expression hardens and gripping it properly she holds it up, aims at the wall, squinting slightly as if lining up her target.

“This will do,” she tells Sandor, handing it back to him. 

He hopes she’s right.

**

They are to stay in a safe house, a property owned by a friend of the Father, which he’s used on other occasions to hide people away when it was needed. 

“I hope we don’t bring you to any harm,” Sansa says worriedly, “There may be people after us, we may make more enemies when we take my sister back.”

The Father laughs at that, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve lived through left wing militias and right wing paramilitaries, through drug lords and government crackdowns. Your brief time here will not be the end of me.”

And so they thank him, unable to do anything else. Night is falling and they’re preparing to travel across town to where they’ll spend the night when there is a knock at the door, unexpected to all of them.

The Father opens the door to a young man, ordinary to look at, who would not stand out in a crowd. 

“The Spider sent me.” He tells them, and Sansa goes still, staring at the young man, while Sandor merely nods. 

“Come in then, and say what you have to,” Sandor rasps, but the man shakes his head and remains where he stands.

“I’ll pick you up from here tomorrow, be ready by 8am. There’s a long journey ahead and we need to make an early start.”

“Who are you?” Sansa asks him then, her face a mask once more, devoid of any emotion.

“You don’t need to know that,” the man replies. “I would’ve thought you’d understand the way things work by now. We all do our part, do what we’re told. You do as I tell you and we’ll all get out of this alive and get the girl away too.”

A meaningful nod at all of them and he is gone, quickly walking away and into the evening dusk as Sansa stares after him.

“Don’t worry, little bird. If he meant to kill us then he could do so here easily enough without needing to lure us into the hills.” 

“Perhaps they only need us to die in the right place.” Sansa comments, still staring off into the gloom.

He wishes that he could reassure her, but this is wholly unfamiliar territory for him and they’ll only know for certain once they’ve seen her sister with their own eyes. What will happen after that… that all depends on how things go down.

What he does know is that tomorrow they’ll be heading off into the hills with a man the Spider has sent, very possibly towards betrayal or failure or death. 

What he does know, is that he’d promised himself he’d never allow anyone to harm Sansa Stark again.

One of the only promises that he’s ever made and he doesn’t intend to break it. 

 

**

The safe house is the top floor of an industrial building in a working class neighbourhood; reinforced doors, bulletproof windows and a state of the art alarm system installed. 

The old priest drops them off and teaches them the codes to the alarms before he leaves, telling them that he’ll come to get them in the morning. 

Sansa looks around her, at the six beds set out in the room for the use of larger groups than theirs, at the spare mattresses piled against the wall. 

Sandor walks the perimeter of the safe house, noting exits and items that can be used as weapons, strong and weak points to the defenses before he turns back to look at her, sitting quietly on one of the beds and staring at the wall.

“Looks safe,” he rasps and she jerks out of her reverie, turns towards him. “We’ll be alright here for the night.”

“We might die tomorrow.” She replies quietly, looking over at him with an expression that he can’t decipher. He can tell that her mask is firmly in place at the moment, her emotions closed off from him once more.

“We might,” he acknowledges, “but we might not too. Best get some sleep since we’ve got an early start, need to have our wits about us.”

Sansa continues looking at him as if waiting for something, some acknowledgement, some revelation, but she never says a word. She looks at him in such a way that heat begins to rise within him and Sandor finds his patience sorely stretched, fights the urge to cross the room and kiss her hard, let her know how he really feels about the fact they might die tomorrow. 

But until she makes her own wishes on the subject clear he’ll keep his distance, as well as he’s able.

“What is it?” he asks, wishing that for once she would just speak what was really on her mind, that she would trust him enough to completely drop the mask.

“Nothing,” Sansa murmurs and looks away. “We’ll get some sleep and be ready for the morning.”

Somehow Sandor is sure that that won’t be the end of it.

** 

For the first time since they left New Mexico they sleep separately, with so many beds in the room and smaller than they’re used to, there is no excuse for them to share one - no pretense of marriage that they must keep up here.

Exiting the bathroom dressed in her sleepwear and with a towel in her hand, Sansa looks at the bed that Sandor has chosen for himself, looks at it and seems about to move towards it before she changes her mind. She chooses the one next to him instead, lies down upon it and waits for him to switch out the light. 

“I won’t tell you it’ll all turn out alright, little bird,” he tells her as they lie in the dark in their own beds, “Because I won’t lie to you and we both know it could easily go to hell. But I’ll do my best to make sure we all get out of there alive. You keep your gun close to hand and if it comes down to it then you run, you save yourself.”

“I’m done with running.” Sansa replies softly, her voice drifting over from across the space between them. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t leave you there.”

It’s a foolish notion, to think she’d stay and fight to the end with him if it came down to it, but it warms him all the same. 

“Sleep,” he tells her, “And maybe we’ll see your sister tomorrow.”

The rhythmic clack of the fan overhead soon lulls him to sleep but he doubts that it has been much time at all when he awakens suddenly, aware of some movement nearby and reaches out, his hand meeting flesh.

She has crawled into his bed wearing only a thin t-shirt and her underwear and god help him but he hardens instantly. She kneels beside where he lies, her bare legs brushing against his and leans towards him, bringing her face closer.

The room is dark and he can't see her features but she reaches out to touch his, placing her hands on both sides of his face.

"We might die tomorrow. We might die and this will all have been for nothing. Why haven't you taken me?" She whispers, "I'm yours, I promised, I... Why won't you? Do you truly not want me anymore? Am I… Do I disgust you so much now by what I’ve become?"

He's never been a saint and asking him to resist this much temptation is asking entirely too much.

She might be broken, so damaged that he has no idea how to put her together again, but fuck him if he doesn't think they understand each other better now than they ever did before. He’s barely held on to his self-control since he found her again and it’s finally reached its breaking point.

Grasping her arms he flips her over so that he's on top of her. Pins her wrists and leans down to kiss her hard, finds her lips soft and yielding and eager beneath his. She kisses him as if he's air itself.

"I've never fucking well stopped wanting you," he growls, "I've never wanted you more."

This time it is she who arches up to press her mouth to his. Gasps as a hand finds a breast, presses herself against him and begins to tug his shirt off.

"I wanted..." she whispers, "I wanted..."

He kisses her words away. Briefly disengages to shrug himself out of his shirt as she pulls her own over her head, struggling briefly as it catches on her hair until he reaches out to pull it loose. He allows his hands to caress her hips for a moment before he hooks his fingers into the string of her panties, pulling them down effortlessly as she lifts her legs to help him. Only his own pants now remain and those are disposed of quickly enough. 

His eyes have adjusted to the dark and naked under him, she is beautiful in the moonlight. He wonders if he is less of a beast in the dark. Wonders if he might steal some of that beauty for himself.

She is beautiful and soft in his embrace and his for the first time, perhaps for the last time, so he forces himself to be gentle no matter how badly he is aching. He caresses her, his hands moving over her breasts and down to her hips, lower, seeking to find ways that he might give her pleasure. 

She is hesitant when she touches him, fingers skimming along his length then shyly grasping. “Is it… is it alright?” She asks him. He would almost believe that she didn’t know what she was doing. 

He kisses her fiercely in reply, almost loses his control when she respond to him so eagerly, hangs onto it by the barest thread and turns his mouth towards the rest of her body.

Every gasp and moan from her is counted as a victory, the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

He touches her, running his fingers slowly up her thighs and to her folds, stroking her slowly before he moves up to her clit, rubbing it. He can feel how wet she already is, the moisture trickling down her thighs and to the curve of her ass. 

The bed creaks as he shifts over her and he grunts, barely able to restrain himself from taking her quickly when they’re so close now. He should do more to make her ready but she’s dripping already and welcoming and if he waits much longer then he’ll be done before he’s even begun. Rubbing himself against her to spread some of her moisture, he guides the head of his cock into place and pushes slowly into her.

Sansa stifles a short, panicked cry even as Sandor feels the resistance, and he stops, knowing instantly what it means. He had thought… 

He groans, his entire body taut and straining, the too tight glove of her body testing his control. He desperately wants to push himself further into her but he fights against it, not wanting to hurt her further. “Sansa, fuck, why didn’t you tell me?”

She looks straight into his eyes, a glimmer in hers, and brings a hand up to cup his scarred cheek. "Because I wanted it to be you." She tells him, a slight hitch in her voice.

“Well… shit. Fuck.” He moves to withdraw but she grabs onto him tightly, bucks her hips up to bring him in even deeper despite a visible flinch.

He tries to speak, but she kisses him hard, silences him with it and draws him closer so that he moves within her instead, as slowly as possible so as to spare her the pain. He feels her gasp into his mouth, feels her body tremble under his. 

She pulls him against her, burying her nose against his shoulder blade, her hand on his ass, urging him to move against her. His hips pump, sweat slicking both their bodies. It has been too long for him and he thinks it best not to prolong it this first time when it must hurt her. He pulls himself out just in time, a deep guttural cry rumbling from his throat as his body spasms, his cock pulsing. He collapses onto her, panting and gripping her tightly.

It has been years since he’s been with a woman, years since he’d wanted to since the time all he could think of was her. He’d forgotten how it could feel, had blocked it out, though he knows that he never truly knew how it could feel before, not like this.

She is soft under him and her hands are warm upon his back but he rolls off her, raises himself and turns on the light, sees her flinch away from it. 

“You never said.” He tells her pointedly, sitting down on the bed beside her where she’s drawn herself up, hugging her knees as if to hide her nakedness. 

It’s past time that they finally lay some truths bare before each other now that they’ve come to this point. A possibility of dying in the morning and he won’t let it end that way without speaking his piece.

“I never said what?” She asks him, her voice quiet. “That I… I…”

“That you wanted me.” He interrupts her softly stuttered words. “You offered yourself to me that first night like some fucking prize to be won, a reward. You’re not that. Never, ever fucking think that you’re that. I’m not that man either. If you would’ve told me that you wanted me even once, I’d have fucked you the same night.”

“I didn’t…” Sansa begins to say and then looks down, tears building in her eyes. “I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what? Didn’t think I’d stick around if there wasn’t something in it for me? Didn’t think you were worth more to me than a quick screw? For fuck’s sake, Sansa, why do you think I came back for you? The world isn’t all men like Littlefinger and the Lannisters. You’ve learned some hard lessons but you don’t need to apply them to everyone.” He stops, breathing heavily and looks at her, at the tears pooled in her eyes and wonders if he’s been too harsh. But she needs to hear this, needs to see that she can let go, leave that time behind and reclaim herself once more. 

He leans forward, uncaring of his nakedness, and tilts her chin up with his fingers. “I’d fucking well die for you, little bird, and you know that. You want me, then you damn well say it or I won’t touch you again. You tell me the truth from now on and you look me in the face while you do so.”

She nods once, tears spilling down her cheeks and he kisses her, kisses her hard to leave her in no doubt whatsoever as to the way he feels and brings his hands to her cheeks to wipe the tears roughly away. 

“Let’s get cleaned up.” He tells her, standing and reaching out a hand to help her up. She places her own in his, her expression a little shy, and allows him to lead her to the bathroom. He takes her into the shower and helps her to wash as she blushes, not quite sure where to look. She’s a different girl entirely in the light, all of her recent daring having left her. He’s tempted by her, wants nothing more than to press her against the tiles and fuck her again here and now, but he keeps it as chaste as possible, helps her to dry herself with a towel and then leads her back to the bed.

They sleep afterwards, in the same bed this time and with his arms wrapped around her, no clothes between them. He sleeps better than he has in years, sleeps without either dream or nightmare and wakes only when dawn’s light is already breaking through the windows, the room bathed in a low light and Sansa’s soft hand placed above his heart. 

Sensing that he has awoken, she raises herself so that she might look him straight in the face. 

“I do want you.” She tells him earnestly, once she knows that he is listening. “I thought of you later, after you had left, and in the years afterwards. I thought of you and I wished that you would come back to me. I wanted you then, when I had realized the truth of it.”

It is the first time that she has admitted it to his face and in the light of day, and Sandor cannot help staring at her to hear it said, knowing that they have crossed an important point, perhaps even more important than the night before. 

He draws her down into a kiss, allows his hands to roam upon her, to caress the soft skin of her back, their kisses soon becoming more heated. He’s determined to do right by her, to give her whatever he can in return for the trust she’s placed in him. So he draws her down and dips his head to bring it between her thighs, ensuring that she has her pleasure first. She shudders against him, her hands in his hair, wriggling under him as if embarrassed and gasping, breathing erratically. When she comes it is with a small cry, almost as if surprised, her body shuddering, and he finally raises himself, brings them level and enters her, sliding in easily. Her legs clamp around his back, his mouth locks upon the junction of her throat and shoulder. He takes it slowly, an agonizingly sweet pressure building up as he promises himself that this time he won’t finish so soon, that he’ll show her what he’s made of, how he might worship her if it’s truly what she wants. 

She moans under him as he buries himself in deeper and Sandor bites down upon her shoulder lightly, teeth grazing skin but not breaking it, marking her in some way as his. Her body sings under his and this, this is what he wanted, this is what he had waited for. 

“Sansa,” he murmurs, burying his head between her slight breasts as she brings a hand up to grasp the hair at the back of his neck.

They very well might die today, he knows that, but at least they’ve had a taste of truth before they do.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very very much to Kimberlite8 for taking time out from her incredibly hectic schedule to beta this! I'm very sorry this part took so long - I blame overtime at work, going on holiday and an inability to write unless I'm in the right type of mood.

Chapter Eight

She is shy when they wake in the morning, her gaze darting to him and away, clearly unsure how to act now, after what they’ve done. It reminds him of the girl she used to be, all politely averted eyes and modesty, a trait he never used to like. 

When he looks towards her she glances away, gathering a sheet around her and beginning to pull clothes from her backpack, preparing for the day.

“Hey,” he reaches out to pull her close and holds her against him, tilts her chin up with his hand so that she has to meet his eyes. She looks at him, a little shyly, a little wonderingly, and his words stick in his throat. As uncertain as this new step is, as much as they might still die today, he’ll do his best not to fuck it up, to keep them alive and ensure she stays by his side. 

“We’ll be alright.” he tells her, and leans down to kiss her briefly, lingering only a few seconds upon her lips. Then he ducks his head, places a heavy kiss upon her shoulder and raises his eyes back to hers. She is watching him, her breath seemingly held, completely still. 

And then she gives him a small smile, and a nod of agreement. 

“We’ll be alright,” she agrees, as if she really believes it, raising her hand to touch the unscarred side of his face, her fingers briefly caressing his cheek. 

They use the bathroom by turns and when he emerges, still pulling his shirt over his head, it is to see her sitting on her bed, her pack beside her, waiting for him. 

It is his turn to catch his breath, because over her clothing she is wearing an old leather jacket, worn in places and instantly recognizable. 

She looks up, catches his expression and smiles once more, self consciously this time.

“You kept it.” he comments, a little dumbly, unsure what else to say. It is a different revelation entirely that so many years later, even after hearing he was dead, she had still kept it. Two escapes in that time, only a backpack worth of belongings to call her own, and she still has it. 

“I always hoped you’d come back for it.” 

In that moment he truly understands. It is not only he who has lived with impossible dreams and a burning regret that things had not turned out differently. 

After everything she had been through, it was a far easier thing to offer him her body without giving him the truth of how she felt. He understands it now, feels the knowledge of it spark within him; that he is truly her choice, has been for years now. 

Perhaps it’s past time that he was a little more open with her himself.

“Sansa,” he begins to say, and takes a step towards her. She looks towards him expectantly.

Then the intercom buzzes, and swiveling his head to look at the video feed outside, Sandor sees that the Father has arrived. 

It will wait, what he wishes to say to her. It will wait until they have seen this through.

He turns to open the door, catching a change in her expression from the corner of his eye as he does so, one of barely concealed disappointment. 

“We will get through this,” he tells her, turning back at the last moment. “You’d better believe that, because I’m sure as hell not ready to die, not now.” 

He grins at her then, his scars twisting, his meaning implicit in the statement. A quick blush rises to Sansa’s cheek as she smiles hesitantly back at him. 

It is enough, enough hope to get them through, and Sandor strides across to the door to let the Father in.

The older priest has brought them breakfast and they eat the rolls quickly before they leave, knowing that it might be some time before they can stop for food.

Sandor already has both of his guns in place in their holster, his knife strapped to his thigh. Skimming his hand along the small of Sansa’s back as they leave the safe house, he feels her own gun placed there, tucked inside the waistband of her pants and hidden by his jacket. 

A clever little bird indeed.

 

**

The Spider’s man is already waiting for them when they arrive at the parish house. There’s nothing to tell how long he might have been there before they arrived, no trace of annoyance on his face as he sits within a beat up old jeep. 

“We’d best be off.” is all the man says, gesturing for them to get in as casually as if they’re all heading off for a fucking picnic.

They both turn to the Father to say their goodbyes, Sansa murmuring hers softly while Sandor clasps the man’s hand firmly.

“Bring her back here once you have her,” the old priest tells them, “I’m guessing that you haven’t thought much past that point. You’ll need some time to lay low and make new plans.”

He’s right, they’ve never discussed what they’ll do once they have Arya with them, it’s almost as if neither one of them has wanted to jinx it by putting thoughts into words. In the end, a great deal will depend on how receptive Arya is to joining them. Sandor would bet that the girl won’t be too happy to see his face again after leaving him for dead by the roadside. They’ve been working under the assumption that Arya will want to go with them, that she’ll be happy to be reunited with Sansa. But if she’s not…

She might refuse. She might insist that she and Sansa make their own way from now on without him. 

One thing is for certain, if she’s won’t leave with them willingly then everything could very quickly go to hell.

“What’s the plan?” Sandor asks their companion, looking ahead to where the man sits in the driver’s seat. He and Sansa sit behind, playing the part of tourists out for a hiking trip with a guide and driver.

“She’ll be brought to us at the rendezvous point by some members of her own faction. Seems the girl has gotten a little too good at her work for the liking of some, she’s threatening power relations and it’s easier for them if she goes of her own accord.”

“And Varys, what’s his stake in this?” Sandor rasps, “I’m warning you now, if either of them comes to any harm…”

“Then it certainly won’t be my responsibility.” the man replies, fixing Sandor with a hard stare from the rearview mirror. “I’m only here to facilitate the deal. And Varys… well, the less you know about his plans the better. The girl is a risk to one of his other pieces, and he would prefer not to need to kill her. Got a heart, the Spider has.”

Sandor snorts at that but it leaves him wondering. In finding Arya, will they be removing themselves from the equation entirely, or simply becoming more firmly ensnared in whatever Varys’ gameplan is? Sandor has never been good at these power machinations and games, this cloak and dagger bullshit. Give him a gun in his hand and a clear target and he’ll get the job done with a minimum of fuss, but this… he’s out of his depth and he knows it, he always has been. 

“How many people will there be at the exchange?” he asks instead, searching for something real he can prepare for. “How heavily armed?”

“I’m expecting four, including the girl. We’ll be evenly matched. Don’t do anything stupid and only pull out a gun as a last resort.”

Sandor doesn’t need to be told that, but he bites his tongue against the sarcastic retort that threatens to come to his lips.

The drive is long and the terrain rough as they head into the hills, into the wilderness that the younger Stark girl has apparently called her home for the past 2 years. 

Despite a lack of sleep, Sandor is alert and on edge, unable to relax until the job is done. He’s used to this, to days without sleep, to hardship and rough conditions, but he’s surprised by how well Sansa seems to be coping. She watches their surroundings pass by outside the jeep, eyes darting back and forth between landmarks and the dense wilderness beyond the road. Occasionally she looks towards him, briefly meeting his gaze as if to seek some reassurance. He can’t give her anything more than he’d given this morning, that they’ll be alright, that they’ll get through this. He hopes that the day doesn’t turn him into a liar. 

They are silent, all three of them. There’s nothing left to say now, no reason to ask further questions when they’re as prepared as they’ll ever be.

“We’re getting close now,” their companion warns them as the day begins to fade into afternoon, “Be prepared.” 

Sandor pulls his guns out and checks them, ensuring that he’s ready. Sansa allows hers to remain where it is at the small of her back and he feels a sense of pride, knowing that she’s maintaining the element of surprise, in case Varys’s man is going to betray them, in case he really has brought them out here to die. 

Her hand slides across the back seat of the jeep, hesitantly reaching towards him and he grabs it with his own, squeezes it hard, and looks her straight in the eye. She’s scared, he can see it plainly in her eyes, no matter how still she keeps the rest of her face. 

“You’ve survived both the Lannisters and Littlefinger,” he reminds her “You won’t die here. And these aren’t the worst odds I’ve faced by far.”

She nods tersely, gives his hand a final squeeze and releases it, once again focused on the task at hand.

The jeep pulls off the main road and heads up a side track, little more than packed dirt and only as wide as their vehicle. Ten minutes more and they pull up to a small clearing, barely large enough to accommodate their car and the other vehicle that is already there. 

The Spider’s man calls out in Spanish, a query to the other party that Sandor only half understands and then there is a shouted reply. He can hear Sansa murmuring a prayer under her breath as the doors to the other car open, her shoulders tense, her eyes fixated on the other vehicle waiting for a first sight of her sister. 

And then jumping down from the other car with catlike grace, a girl appears, not more than ten paces in front of them.

Sansa makes a noise that sounds like a strangled sob, and reaches out to open the jeep’s door, only to be stilled by Sandor’s hand on her arm.

“Wait,” he instructs her, looking towards their guide for a cue and waiting for the rest of Arya’s companions to make their presence known. 

Three more men step out of the car in front of them and Sandor watches as Arya Stark turns towards them, asking something that he can’t hear. She appears relaxed, unbothered by what they might be doing there or whom they’ve come to meet. There is a gun in a holster around the girl’s upper thigh and she rests her hand upon it, almost casually.

“It’s time,” Varys’s man instructs them, and nodding at Sansa, Sandor pats her arm once and opens his own door. 

They step out at the same time, into the dappled afternoon light, and Sandor watches carefully to see the girl’s reaction. 

Arya’s gaze goes first to Sansa and then to him and back again. There is confusion written on her face, more than any other emotion that he can identify.

“Arya!” Sansa calls out to her sister, and the girl simply stares at her, as if unsure how she should react.

Sandor waits, one eye on Varys’s man where he converses with Arya’s companions in low voices. 

“Arya, it’s me, Sansa.” the little bird continues, reaching out one hand to her sister as if pleading with her. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“I once knew a girl named Sansa, a girl who had red hair and loved lemon cakes.” The younger sister comments in a low voice and Sandor looks at her more closely, at the blankness of her expression, the dullness in her eyes. Arya looks back towards him then. “I once knew a burned man too, but he died by the side of the road after I left him there.”

“It is me, Arya.” Sansa says gently, taking a few more steps forward towards her sister even as Sandor’s fingers itch to reach for the gun in his holster, knowing that this is all terribly wrong. “I am your sister. I might not have red hair anymore, we might not have seen each other for years but you remember, I know you remember. I’ve come to get you, Arya, I’ve wanted to find you for the longest time.”

Arya Stark looks at her sister then, looks at her and yet her expression does not change. If Sandor had to take a guess then he’d say that the girl has retreated somewhere deep inside, somewhere beyond the present reach of any of them. He’s seen it before, seen it in wartime most often, when there’s too many things that have been seen and done that you’d rather forget.

"There is no Arya Stark anymore," Sansa’s younger sister finally declares, "There was a girl by that name once, but she’s dead now. I am no one." she turns away as if dismissing them and back towards the men she came with, addressing them in Spanish and gesturing to the car. 

Sansa crosses the remaining three strides towards Arya, grabs her shoulder to wrench her around and slaps her full in the face, so hard that the sound rings across the entire clearing. Then she gathers her younger sister into her arms, hugs her tightly as tears stream down her face.

"You are Arya Stark." Sansa declares fiercely, "You're Ned and Catelyn Stark's daughter, you're Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Robb and Jon's sister. You ARE Arya Stark and I’m taking you with me now, whether you want to go or not.”

Arya shakes her head, moving to push her sister away, her face still strangely emotionless but Sandor steps forward, looming over both of them and forcing her to look up as his shadow falls upon her.

“We’re none of us the people we used to be, Arya, but blood is blood and pack is pack and whether you go by that name anymore or not, you belong with your sister.”

“Blood.” the girl who used to be Arya Stark murmurs, “Pack.” For a moment there is a spark in her eyes as she looks at her sister, some long ago memory that has been suppressed returning, and then the blankness returns and she twists to escape from Sansa’s grip. 

Before she can complete the action, Sandor steps forward and quick as can be, pistol whips her on the back of her head, causing her to slump forward into Sansa’s arms.

The little bird looks up at him, her expression mixed, and he knows that she’s unsure whether she should be grateful or scold him for it. 

Sandor shrugs, it’s not the first time he’s done it to the brat and the previous time he’d done so it damn well saved her life. 

He gestures to Sansa to hand her sister over and with a fluid movement, leans down to pick Arya up, hoisting her over his shoulder. She’s never been tall and despite the time that has passed she is still small, her body slender and barely weighing anything at all.

“We’ll be off then,” Sandor rasps, nodding at Vary’s man and jerking his head towards the car. “Tell them they can consider it finished with, she’s not their problem anymore.”

Sandor’s already taken one step back towards the car but he watches the men anyway as it is explained to them, as one of them give a terse shake of his head and clucks his tongue, looking towards them and replying in rapid fire Spanish.

Sandor has no idea what has been said but Varys’s man is replying in soothing tones even as he reaches one hand slowly towards his gun. Seeing this, Sandor moves his free hand towards his own, ready to draw at any moment. 

It is Sansa however, having understood exactly what has been said, who is the first to take action, reaching behind her back to draw her own gun quickly. 

She replies in icy tones in Spanish, words that Sandor isn’t able to understand, even as she makes a gesture to him with her hand, a sign to be ready.

The other men understand her though, Sandor is certain of it, but that doesn’t stop any of them from reaching to draw their own weapons. 

Sandor yells for Sansa to get behind him, drawing and aiming quickly for the men’s leader, putting a bullet through his head before he can get his shot off. 

The little bird doesn’t listen, and even as he lines up his next shot he sees her take her own, hitting the second man in the shoulder, knocking him back as he aims at Sandor. Sandor fires his own weapon and hits the man square in the chest, finishing him off before he can raise his gun again. 

They turn as one to find that the third man is already dead, shot by the Spider’s man. Their guide has not escaped unscathed however, slumped against a tree in an ever growing pool of his own blood. 

Sandor sets Arya down on the ground near their vehicle and walks towards Varys’s man, kicking guns away from the hands of Arya’s ex-compatriots, checking them as he goes. The one whom he had shot in the chest is taking last gurgling breaths as blood runs out of his mouth and from the hole in his chest, but he’ll be dead soon enough.

He moves to crouch down in front of their guide, Sansa close beside him. Sandor checks the man over, seeing what might be done for him, but they’re far from civilization and he’s not going to last the journey.

“It wasn’t mean to go down like this,” the man tells them, still nameless even as the colour fades from his face, the grey pallor of those nearing death replacing it. “It certainly wasn’t planned this way.”

“Or maybe it was and you just never knew it.” Sandor comments, “Could be that this was Varys’s plan all along.”

“No,” the man replies, his breathing labored as he fights to say what he wishes to. “They found out who she was, what she was worth. Decided they’d take both girls and sell them to someone who would pay a higher price.”

Sandor doesn’t know who that someone was - Lannisters, Freys, Boltons; it could be any of them. What he does know is that most likely somebody is now aware that the girls are alive, and that that somebody will be coming for them soon.

“Is there anything that we can do for you?” Sansa asks the man sincerely, reaching out to touch his hand where it rests limply by his side. “Anybody that we might contact to tell them how you died?”

The man laughs, coughs violently, and laughs again. “People like me…” he begins to say, the words abruptly stopping as the light in his eyes dies.

Sansa looks at the man, wide eyed and white faced, her entire body trembling, the gun still clutched tightly in her hand. 

“We need to go.” Sandor tells her gently and she starts, turning away from the body and back to him. 

“They…” she starts to say, glancing down at the gun in her hand. “I understood them, I knew they wouldn’t let us go. They were going to kill you and take us. They were going to…”

“And now they’re dead.” Sandor breaks in, “They can’t do anything to you anymore. I wouldn’t have let them either. But there’ll be more and we need to get away from here as quickly as possible before they get here. So let’s put your sister in the car and get back to Bogota.”

She nods but remains where she is, mute and still looking at the body. She’s seen a lot of death in her young life, but today would have been the first time she’d ever pulled the trigger on somebody herself. That the man was killed by Sandor’s shot rather than hers is unimportant, she feels it nonetheless.

“Hey.” he rasps, getting her attention. “Come here.” Sandor reaches over and checks that the safety is back on her gun, before taking it from her hands, tucking it back into her waistband. Then he lifts her up by the elbows until she’s standing, holds her there for a moment until he’s sure that she’ll stay upright, and shifts his hands to cup either side of her face so that she has to look directly at him.

“They’re dead. They’re dead and we’re alive and we’re going to stay that way. Now we need to get back to the city and get your sister some help and after that we’ll see what needs to be done next, but right now we need to get back into that car and start driving.”

Sansa takes a moment to process it then draws in a deep breath and nods, visibly steeling herself. He’s proud of her then, proud of her ability to do that, to pick herself up and keep going no matter what. He drops one hand from her face, grips her chin with the other and leans in to kiss her, hard and fierce and wanting to remind her that they’re both still alive.

“Now let’s go.” 

**  
They drape Arya’s prone form upon the back seat to make it look like she’s sleeping. A quick check of a first aid kit in the back of the jeep and Sandor discovers tranquilisers, a dose ready to inject should the girl wake up and start causing trouble. He takes the gun from Arya’s holster and binds her hands, draping a blanket over her to hide it should anybody look into the car. 

The bodies they leave as they are, the Spider’s man included. There’s no time to bury them and a fire would draw too much attention. Should they be discovered then it’s more than likely that it will be assumed the deaths are the result of an illicit deal gone wrong.

“She doesn’t remember,” Sansa murmurs an hour into the drive, breaking the silence that has descended between them, “I think I know, I think I understand. There were times… when I used to think that I really was Alayne, that Sansa had been a kind of dream. There were times when I wished, desperately, that Sansa really had been a dream, that those things had never happened to me.”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the road. She is looking behind her to the backseat where her sister lies, the raw grief of that memory upon her face. Sandor knows that even now, Sansa is still emerging from that dream state, reclaiming herself slowly but surely from the cocoon in which she had hidden herself away, somewhere deep inside. 

“She’ll remember, as you did. Too stubborn for her own good from what I remember, I doubt it’ll take her too long now that she’s back with you.”

She reaches out then, to briefly lay her hand upon his leg, and he turns his head to find her looking at him, intent and unsure.

“We’ll get through this.” he promises her once more, never knowing whether it will really be true. He’ll try his fucking hardest to ensure it is, no matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, no matter what her sister does or doesn’t remember. 

He’ll see to it. Kill anybody he needs to in order to ensure it. 

And one day he’ll take her home again.

**

The shadows have lengthened into night by the time they arrive back to Bogota, the evening heavy upon them when they reach the Father’s residence. 

The elderly priest sighs when he hears their tale and promises to dispose of the jeep, to leave no evidence of their existence there. 

And so that last task done, they make their way across town to the safe house once again. 

Sandor is so bone numbingly weary that he thinks he might like to pass out there and then, but there’s things to be done and words to be said before he can do so, he knows it in his bones. 

It’s just the three of them now, the priest has left to get rid of the jeep and to contact Elder Brother to inform him of what’s occurred. He’s promised to come back in the morning to help them anyway that he can. 

They settle Arya onto one of the beds, handcuffing her to it even though she’s likely to sleep off the tranquilisation dose they’ve given her until morning. Sansa sits on the side of the mattress, looking down at her little sister’s face. Sandor lies on one of the other beds nearby, arms folded under his head and tries not to look over at the sight, wanting to give them a moment of privacy.

Sansa brushes some strands of hair away from Arya’s forehead and begins to speak, slowly at first and then softly rambling, more to herself than to Sandor, he realizes. She speaks about deprogramming techniques and long roads to recovery and Sandor wonders if she realises that the same advice could easily be applied to her.

"We'll get her the help she needs, little bird." he says, more to give her a reply so that she'll stop babbling than anything else. "She'll be the same little angry hell raiser again before you know it."

She looks up suddenly, startled, as if she'd forgotten there was anybody else there at all. 

She's had nobody to rely on for so very long.

She is silent for a long moment as he looks at her, and he sees the change overcome her as she looks down to Arya and then back at him, as she slowly but surely allows her guard to drop.

"You won't leave me, will you?" she finally asks, her voice breaking slightly on the last word. "You won't... You won't let me down?"

There is so much vulnerability in her voice at that moment that he feels his throat tighten, choking him, feels the grief he has long tried to stifle rise up in him at last. There is still the girl in her that he remembers, long suffocated under layers of indifference. 

He removes a hand from under his head, pats the mattress next to him to motion her over.

She crawls into his bed, curls up into him and tucks her head into the crook of his neck.

For a moment they simply breathe together.

"I won't let you down, little bird." he tells her, stroking her back gently. "I won't leave you, and I won't ever lie to you and I'll keep you and your sister safe." 

He tells her everything she's wanted to hear, everything she needs to know but has refused to ask. He wants desperately to have her smile and sing and laugh, to bring back all the innocence she's lost as impossible as that is. "I'll stay by your side for as long I live if that's what you want, I’ll do anything you ask of me."

"But why would you?” she asks him, and he can feel a tear as it falls upon his skin, feel her trembling against him. "I'm not the same girl that I was then, the girl you wanted to save. I wish I could be, but I can’t."

“It doesn’t matter,” he rasps, kisses her forehead. “We’ve both changed, I’m hardly the man I was at that time either. Whatever you might say, you’re still Sansa Stark, and you always will be.”

“Am I?” she asks him, tears running freely down her cheeks now, a hitch in her breath when she speaks. “There are days when I don’t know if that is true or not, when that still feels like someone else’s life. There is so much inside me now, so much of anger and hate and grief and lies, I don’t know, I can’t… I wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t want me anymore now.”

He laughs darkly at that, guilt rising within him at her words. “You needn’t fear that at least, there will never come a day when I don’t want you. That’s not the problem, that will never be the problem.”

He wraps both of his arms around her, holds her so tightly against him that they could easily melt into one. Takes a deep breath and tells her what he's been thinking all along.

“The real tragedy, little bird, the thing I most regret, is this. That you've become exactly the girl I once wanted you to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, the end. I am tossing up the idea of continuing this particular universe but that was the end of the first arc. I hope you all enjoyed it and thank you for sticking with me while I tried something new!


End file.
